


city of silence

by rockabyexo_fest, wonseokie



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, Child!Sehun, Discussions of PTSD, M/M, child!zitao, journalist!Yifan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-05-16 13:55:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19319551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockabyexo_fest/pseuds/rockabyexo_fest, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonseokie/pseuds/wonseokie
Summary: He came home two years too late, to find that his entire world had moved on without him. It was a long road to healing, but he was willing to do anything for his family.written for Rock A Bye FestRB178





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ### Mod Notes
> 
> This work is written for the 2019 Rock A Bye Fic Fest: Round 1. We hope you enjoy! Make sure to give our writers all the love that they deserve~ Authors will be revealed on June 25!  
>  **Prompt:** RB178  
>  **Word count:** 21,123  
>  **Rating:** Mature  
>  **Pairing:** Kim Junmyeon/Wu Yifan  
>  **Characters:** Wu Yifan, Kim Junmyeon, Huang Zitao, Kim Minseok, Lu Han, Park Chanyeol (Mentioned), Huang Zitao, Oh Sehun  
>  **Side pairing/s:** Kim Minseok/Lu Han
> 
> **Warning/s:** Past war and violence; Discussions of depression; Character/s suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder/Acute Stress Disorder; Angst
> 
> ### Author's Notes
> 
> Hello there!!!!!!!!!! This was… quite a difficult fic to write, not only because it felt like I was getting dragged through the forests of Yifan’s war, but also because I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to give justice to the characters and the theme of the fic! I still hope you enjoy, though! There will be a lot of darkness in the fic, and I’m kinda scared it won’t be wholesome enough for a K I D F I C but I tried!

**CITY OF SILENCE**

Yifan Wu, 2019

_ The city of silence can be found in the mountains of a country rife with war and destruction. It can be found among rubble and abandoned buildings, in the middle of black-and-white photographs that only a few people remember now as being more than just shelter from shrapnel and bullets. _

_ The city of silence can also be found in the hearts of millions of people suffering alone in silence, in the minds of those who prefer to keep the burden of their pasts rather than share it with whoever might care enough to look closely to know that it exists. The city of silence is a silent sentinel to hurt, to pain, and to an endless lonely night, where not even the sun can break through the smog. _

_ It’s a city ruined and abandoned by war, but wars aren’t just about bullets and bombs. Wars are battles against yourself, your own mind, the demons of your own making, and one thing I learned from this assignment is that war takes more than it gives from the lives it ravages.  _

_ The changes you see, the changes you undergo; there’s a part of us that goes and never comes back, no matter how whole we are physically at the other end. It’s not nothing to claim it a miracle to survive war, when surviving is and always has been more than finding yourself back home, healthy, whole.  _

_ The war doesn’t end with an armistice, with two powers agreeing on a piece of paper in black and white; war continues in the bloodstream of those who’ve witnessed it, lived through it, taken part in it. War becomes a constant in your mind, almost a friend when you’ve watched your friends perish in unending marches, gunfights, chases.  _

_ And in this city of rain, war is a constant that is selfish: it takes and takes and takes. And yet, you don’t complain. After all, it’s still a constant, nonetheless. _

  
  


Yifan took a deep breath as he stepped out of the plane and onto the tarmac, eyes squinted even behind his shades against the bright summer sun. His shoulder was numb from where he had fallen asleep on it during the flight, the strap of his sling digging into the muscle uncomfortably. He barely noticed, though—his mind was too busy watching the world around him, trying to acclimate to the atmosphere.

Here, it was quiet—even without his ear plugs, the world was quiet. The sound of plane engines didn’t have anything against the sound of active war. He gulped. There was no war here. The war was over—ended exactly twenty-six days ago on an armistice, both countries signing a peace treaty under the United Nations, hostiles and friendlies sent back home—to their homelands, their families.

Yifan’s own homecoming was delayed due to logistical problems. He should have gotten here a week ago, should have been in his husband’s arms, should have been cuddling his son asleep. Every single day of the past week was spent anxiously waiting for an envelope with his ticket home, back to Junmyeon— _ god _ , how he’d missed Junmyeon. How was he? How had he been?

They’d lost contact a year into Yifan’s assignment. The base he’d been assigned to was ambushed in the middle of the night, and Yifan had had to evacuate with the rest of the soldiers to the next camp—farther north into the mountains, where reception was too bad for phone calls and the only way to send letters was through land mail. Yifan had sent letter after letter, but after three months of no reply, the captain of the camp had told him,  _ we cannot ensure that letters being sent abroad are making it to the post. We’re sorry. _

But Yifan didn’t stop. He wrote a letter for every single day he was there—he didn’t send them, just kept them in the messenger bag that made up his entire life in the middle of the war. He’d thought that if his living was based on what he was writing, he might as well write about the love of his life. A part of him, the part he didn’t want to acknowledge or listen to, whispered that he was doing it so he won’t be forgotten if he died in his assignment.

The end of his assignment came and went in that camp, and since no posts were being sent out, nothing were getting sent in, either. The first year after, they couldn’t send him away with an escort—couldn’t risk the small spare contingent they had to accompany him back to the city when they needed every single person they had on deck. The months after were spent running, jumping from base to base and just trying to stay  _ alive _ .

Yifan shuddered, his throat drying as he remembered. It didn’t matter now; he was home, he was a few hours away from finally holding his family in his arms again. It was over; it took longer than they expected, but it was finally done. He could barely wait.

The sudden tap on his shoulder made him jump, whirling on his heels to face the other person. His mind was screaming—he was unsafe, he let someone come too close, he might get  _ hurt _ —but the face of his escort, face lined with wary concern, greeted him. She had taken a step back to avoid getting hit by his cast-clad arm, swinging in an arc around his torso whenever he moved too fast. It took him a few moments to calm down, and when he did, he sent her a tired smile.

“I’m sorry for startling you, Mister Wu,” she murmured, “I just wanted to let you know that the car is waiting for us, whenever you’re ready.”

Yifan took another deep breath as his heart slowed down in his chest. His hand was still shaking, but hiding that was easy. What was harder was convincing his feet to take one step after another, commanding his body to move in a way that didn’t reflect how he had been living the past two years. He had to keep reminding himself that he was now safe, that there weren’t bullets chasing him, that he could look behind him without the fear of seeing people he had considered his friends falling one by one trying to keep him alive. He wasn’t on a battlefield anymore, didn’t have to stay alert, didn’t have to stay ready to flee.

The war around him was over, and yet his mind remained unbelieving. He was safe, now; home. But it still felt like he was stuck in that forest, exhausted out of his mind; the airport around him was bright and dry, but all he could hear was still the rain, all he could smell were earth and blood. He knew he wasn’t, but he still felt like he was reliving those last three months, over and over.

“L-Lead the way,” he finally managed to say. He winced. His throat was dry, voice cracking over his words; unused to speaking in a way that wasn’t shouting directions, yelling his friends’ names in hopes that they had managed to survive through the night.

The woman watched him for a few more moments before nodding, gesturing at him to follow her as she took off towards the terminal. It took him another few minutes, long enough for her to look back over her shoulder at him, before he could move again.

His mind went to the small picture in his breast pocket, his one possession he made sure never to lose—even in the midst of running, of trying to survive. It was the last picture Junmyeon had sent him before they lost contact—discolored, crumpled, and torn on all corners, but the image was still clear: his husband, merrily smiling, holding their son in his arms. Tao must have gotten so big in the time Yifan hadn’t seen him.

With his two favorite people in mind, he took his first steps back into his old life.

*

“Papa, no, no, no, no, no.”

“Papa, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Yes, Tao, we have to—get  _ back _ here—”

Junmyeon closed his eyes and resisted the urge to sigh. Every  _ night _ . This happened every single night, right after bath time. Every night, after dinner, he had to struggle to get his son into the bath, and then struggle to get him out of it, and then struggle again to get him to put on his clothes. Tao was probably running around their house in his true form as a buck-naked gremlin.

He was  _ tired _ . No, scratch that—he was exhausted. He’d had to juggle two part-time jobs with the full-time job of being a father, and he just wanted to  _ rest _ . There were bags under his eyes that appeared out of nowhere and just wouldn’t go away, no matter what skincare tips from Minseok he followed. His hands haven’t stopped shaking in a week, his back  _ hurt _ , and his foot has been aching the entire day; it didn’t help that his job as a retail assistant kept him on his feet all day. And then he’d had to pick up his son from daycare, face people’s judging eyes when he was late  _ again _ , and then try to feed him something that didn’t come out of a box or a pre-made package.

He hasn’t even been sleeping well. Sleep has been elusive since—

He shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to be wallowing in his problems; he had a toddler to chase, clothe, and put down to sleep. A glance at the clock told him that if he didn’t get Tao to bed in half an hour, he’d be too grumpy to be left alone at daycare tomorrow. And then he would either have to bring him to the café, or skip work altogether, and he was already stretching their budget thin enough as is—he couldn’t afford to skip another shift. They might not be able to pay their water bill this month.

His mind, traitorously, brought up the image of the box he had kept and been keeping under his bed. Every single letter, envelope, and invitation from  _ them _ had been stowed there, never opened and never to see the light of day. He knew that there were cheques there, money he and his son could use—the paper had called it  _ compensation _ , but no matter how much time passed, no matter how desperate he got, he couldn’t bring himself to open a single envelope because doing that felt plain  _ wrong _ .

He still couldn’t explain why. Minseok said it was the part of him that was still in denial, but how could he still be in denial after all this time? All the facts had been slapped right at his face, reiterated over and over with every hearing and meeting he was called into the paper for.

He was alone. The love of his life, the man he’d married, the man who promised to stay with him forever—he was gone, and Junmyeon had to move on with his life. He had to, if not for his sake then for his son’s—Tao was too small to remember how badly it had gotten when he received that letter from the paper—the first and last he’d opened since his husband’s last assignment. He shouldn’t have to witness his father having a breakdown in the kitchen, grasping at a piece of paper that sealed their fate forever.

Tao’s laughter finally broke Junmyeon from his grieving daze. And with a sigh, he took off after his son. Their house wasn’t that big, but there were a lot of small spaces Tao could hide himself in where Junmyeon couldn’t reach him, and he would rather find his child jumping about in the living room than curled up in a cupboard somewhere.

Junmyeon found Tao in the hallway between the bedrooms and the office, arms around his favorite plushie—a llama plushie from his husband’s childhood, that his son somehow found and attached himself to. He rushed at his son, grabbing him around the waist and growling playfully.

“I got you!” he exclaimed, twirling around before walking to the living room where he had enough space to change Tao into his sleepwear. “I got you, panda-bear!”

Tao just squealed in his arms, squirming and trying to get away, but giving up eventually when he realized that Junmyeon wasn’t just playing around anymore. “Papa!” he said, laughing as he bounced on the couch where Junmyeon tossed him. Junmyeon laughed along as he clothed his son: first his shirt, and then laying him down to put on his diapers. He and Minseok have been trying to potty train him with varying results, but sleep was strictly nappy time. After securing the fabric around his son’s waist, it was time for the pants, and then he was finally done.

Tao was already blinking slowly, eyes opening slower with each blink. His smile was dazed but content, and Junmyeon not for the first time thought that, despite everything, his son was worth all the trouble he’s been through, all the trouble he’s sure to go through in the future.

“Come on, little panda,” Junmyeon murmured. “Time for bed, yeah?”

He bent over the couch to grab Tao, pulling him up against his chest before straightening up again. Tao’s arms and legs automatically wrapped around him, his head snuggling under Junmyeon’s jaw. He felt a small sigh leave his son’s body before finally settling down, and he smiled. He was about to make for the bedroom when a knock on the door stopped him. He frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone, not tonight; it was a weekday, after all, so all his friends were either already at work or getting ready for work in the morning.

The knock also seemed to have disturbed Tao, who whined against his throat and pulled his face away, frowning at the door. Well, there went his plan on asking the person to wait until he put his son to sleep.

“Who might that be, little panda?” he murmured, bouncing Tao in his arms as he changed directions and went for the front door instead. “Who’s visiting us at this time of the night, hmm?”

A second round of knocks came just as he was nearing the door, and he calls out a  _ just a moment _ before adjusting his son in his arms to finally open the door. It was probably one of their new neighbors; a young couple moved into the house next door and had been settling in the past three or so days. Chanyeol, he thought his name was, sometimes came around to let Tao play with their dogs, or to drop off a plate of food he’d made too much of while stress cooking.

Junmyeon wasn’t expecting much: maybe Chanyeol, two leashes in one hand, small smile on his face as he asked,  _ does Tao want to play a little? _ Or maybe it was a late evening post, probably from the paper again—they were due to send him another envelope, anyway. He wasn’t expecting the person he opened his front door to.

“Oh,” he heard himself say, but it felt and sounded too far away, as if he was hearing it from a few rooms away. He felt his arms go slack, felt Tao sliding down his arms, saw the man lunge forward to catch his son in his arms, make sure he didn’t fall.  _ Oh _ .

*

_ The dark seems infinite, the moon and the stars and the galaxy obscured by thick clouds, as if the universe was closing its eyes and hiding so as to not bear witness to the endless killings, the senseless deaths, the fall of every man and woman and child on this earth shaken by powers greater than itself.  _

_ My mother once told me that each soul that leaves the realm of the living joins the stars above, to guide those who have been left behind. I couldn’t help but wonder, then, if they are still able to find their way to the heavens when it seems so unwilling to even see that we need, now more than ever, their promised help.  _

_ The blowing wind feels cold. None of us has known the feeling of warmth in what feels like an eternity; I wonder if it will burn, once we finally find shelter again. _

 

Yifan was, inexplicably, nervous. The drive from Seoul was quiet, and—on his part—tense. He kept his eyes on the road, made sure to curl himself up to take up as little space as possible. The cramp he got on his back was worth the small sense of security in a cramped space with strangers.

They dropped him off at his doorstep. The small community where their house was located had changed in the years he had been gone. There were more lights lining the streets now, and the sapling they moved in to was now an adult tree, standing tall and majestic in front of their house, standing guard over their mailbox.

He had waved the car away before he approached the door, and now they’ve been gone for over half an hour and yet here he still was, staring at his home. His son and husband were both just a few meters away—all he had to do was knock. He’d lost most of his possessions in the years caught in war, and all he had now were the clothes on his back, the picture in his pocket, and a sling issued from the hospital, so he didn’t even have keys to open his damned door.

_ Just raise your hand and knock, _ he tried to tell himself, to spur himself from the frozen nervousness he’d fallen into.  _ All you have to do is raise your hand and knock, and you’ll see your family again. _ The door had been repainted from the baby blue it was four years ago to a dark red, almost brown in the darkness of late evening. The bushes that lined the sides of the house were overgrown, and he couldn’t help but wonder why. Garden maintenance was never Yifan’s thing; it was more of an activity that Junmyeon and Minseok bonded over. The sight of their front yard made him a little sad, and simply added to his anxiousness.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Yifan raised his good arm and knocked—three short raps against the familiar wood of their front door. All the lights were on inside, so Junmyeon was still probably awake. There wasn’t any immediate response. Yifan’s heart started beating faster and harder in his chest, countless thoughts running through his head— _ what if they moved? What if they were already asleep? What if _ —

He shook his head and knocked again. “Just a moment,” he heard from inside, and he felt all the nervous energy flow out of his body, just like that. It was Junmyeon on the other side of the door. His Junmyeon—his love, his home, his  _ everything _ . He was right on the other side of the door, about to open their home to him again. His voice was just as melodious as it was when they first met.

The door opened slowly, warily; as if Junmyeon wasn’t sure it was safe, and finally, Yifan got a view of the two people he missed so much in the time he’d been away.  _ God _ , Junmyeon was still as beautiful as he always had been—albeit looking a little more tired now, wan. He was holding their son in his arms, and if not for the look of shock in his face, Yifan would have launched himself at him.

“Oh,” Junmyeon whispered, his arms going slack. Yifan lunged, his good hand catching Tao under the bum to make sure he didn’t fall. The boy was whining—tired, sleepy, probably on their way to bed when Yifan knocked. His eyebrows were scrunched in annoyance when he looked over his shoulder at Yifan, and  _ god  _ he’d missed that little face, couldn’t believe his son had gotten so big without him, had grown this much and he wasn’t around to see it.

“Hi,” Yifan murmured, taking one step closer and adjusting his hold on his son to hoist him up higher on Junmyeon’s chest. He would take him, but his arm was still bad and he didn’t want to risk dropping his son if he turned out to be too heavy.

“Yifan,” Junmyeon whispered again. Yifan smiled, looking up at the look of shock—and, was that fear?—in his eyes. “I— _ Yifan? _ ”

“It’s me, love,” Yifan whispered, taking that one last step closer and finally, finally enclosing his family in his arms, wrapping himself as well as he could around them with one arm out of commission. “It’s me, Junmyeon, I’m back, I’m home.”

Junmyeon was quiet for a moment, before something seemed to have snapped inside of him. He  _ sobbed _ —a heart-wrenching, gutting sound that cut through Yifan’s entire being. Now that Tao was squeezed between them, he released one arm from around their son to wrap around Yifan’s waist instead, burying his face further into Yifan’s chest as he continued to cry.

“Papa?” Tao asked, the confusion in his voice obvious despite being muffled against Junmyeon’s shoulder. “Why are you crying, papa?”

Yifan couldn’t hold it any longer. He finally allowed himself to cry, here in his home, with his family in his arms. Tao was speaking  _ entire sentences _ , and he missed  _ all of it _ . His first word, first steps, first tumble. He probably didn’t even know his son’s favorite food, or cartoon, or bedtime story. Didn’t know what his favorite toy was, favorite game—did he have a best friend? Who was it? How did he spend his mornings?

And Junmyeon was still crying,  _ grieving _ , almost, and Yifan couldn’t believe how much he missed this, missed being home, missed being here. Couldn’t fathom what he was thinking when he agreed on that assignment, how he thought he could live a year away from the loves of his life, much less  _ four _ .

“I’m home,” he murmured again, his thumb running soothing circles against Junmyeon’s back. He kept speaking, softly, gently, reminding Junmyeon that  _ I’m here, I’m home, it’s me, it’s alright. We’re going to be alright, Junmyeon, we’ll be alright. We’ll be fine. I’m here. _

After what felt like forever, yet not long enough—long enough for Tao to start squirming between them, at least—Junmyeon gave one last sniffle and finally released Yifan, taking a step back to bounce Tao in his arms again.

“Why are you crying, Papa?” Tao asked again. He was frowning, looking up at Junmyeon before glancing at Yifan, and then back again. Yifan tried not to be hurt by the obvious suspicion in his voice when he asked, “Did the mean man make you cry, papa?”

_ Mean man. _ His own son called him  _ the mean man _ , as if he didn’t know who he was. It was fair; he probably didn’t. Yifan loved him anyway. Tao probably didn’t even know he had any other parent other than Junmyeon; Yifan wondered to himself how Junmyeon must have explained why they were alone to a  _ child _ . It was fair. Yifan didn’t know a thing about Tao either, but he loved him anyway. They could get to know each other, learn from each other, be a family again. He would do  _ anything _ .

“No, Taotao, the mean man didn’t make me cry,” Junmyeon said softly, pressing a kiss against Tao’s forehead.  _ Taotao _ . What other nicknames did Tao have that Yifan didn’t know, never knew, never got to give? He had several—they were in every single one of those letters he never stopped writing, never got to send, lost in the middle of a war. But what nicknames did Tao know? Which was his favorite?

Despite the reassurance, Tao was still suspicious as he looked back at Yifan. There was a frown on his face, grumpy and tired, and Yifan wanted to kiss it away. Wanted to hold him in his arms, rock him to sleep, play with him until they were both too exhausted to get off the floor.

Another stray tear made its way down his cheek, and Tao must have noticed because his expression turned from wary to concerned. Yifan saw him tug at Junmyeon’s collar as he said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Mean Man, please don’t cry.”

Yifan laughed. It was small and watery, and painfully unfamiliar, but it seemed to soothe Tao because he sent Yifan a hesitant smile before burying his face against Junmyeon’s shoulder. Yifan sniffled. “It’s not your fault, buddy,” he whispered. He cleared his throat, about to say something else when Junmyeon cut him off.

“Come in,” he said, gesturing with a hand at Yifan. “The house is a mess, but it’s getting late and Tao has to go to sleep, don’t you, panda-bear? Oh, and lock the door on your way. I’ll see you in the living room.”

_ Let me join you,  _  he was about to say, but Junmyeon had already turned away from him and was making his way down the hallway, in the direction of the bedrooms. Something heavy settled in Yifan’s stomach, his heart aching at the image of his husband walking away from him.   _ Why didn’t you ask me to come with you?  _

_ Come in _ ,  Junmyeon said, as if he was inviting a guest, a  _ stranger _ , inside their home. The hallway felt and looked unfamiliar, but this was still their home, right? This was still the house they bought two years after getting married, before Tao came along. This was still their  _ home _ , right?

His hand started shaking, and he found himself once again lost. Junmyeon had disappeared down the hall, and Yifan has never felt so  _ alone _ .   _ He didn’t mean to _ ,  Yifan tried to tell himself.   _ He’s keeping routine, for Tao’s sake. Not everything is about you, Yifan.  _

He closed his eyes and just  _ breathed _ . The therapist he’d seen at the hospital told him that things would take time to get back to normal;  _ he _ would take time to get back to normal. They all needed healing after everything that they’ve been through. It will be fine. Finally, after one last sigh, he turned around and locked the door, before making his way to the living room.

*

_ Does my mother remember her own child’s face anymore? Every step I take running in this eternal hell leaves me one memory less, until it feels like I don’t remember who I am anymore. I cannot recall the faces of my comrades, or the faces of my enemies. They all blur to become an identity I cannot recognize, an identity slowly taking over my own.  _

_ Will I one day remember who I was before I became this? _

  
  


The hallway from the front door was different from how it was. Where there used to be pictures of Junmyeon and himself, there were now pictures of Junmyeon and Tao—countless doodles and drawings on paper stuck on the walls, a few scribbles against the paint. The shoe racks didn’t have any of Yifan’s shoes, but thankfully, there was a pair of spare slippers he could use. He would have to look for his things.

He ignored the voice that was telling him that this wasn’t  _ his _ home anymore. It was home—to Junmyeon, and to Tao—to Junmyeon and Tao who didn’t have Yifan in their lives. The voice grew louder with every step he took farther into the house, pointing out how his existence seemed to have been slowly erased through the years. The small dent on the corner where he’d bumped their coffee table against during move-in was gone, plastered over and repainted. Even the rug in the living room was different. The coffee table was different, too; smaller, made of wood instead of marble. The couch looked like it was a more rugged, gaudier version of the one he and Junmyeon had bought together, and his favorite armchair was now home to a pile of items Yifan didn’t recognize.

The wall above the TV set confirmed everything the voice in his head was telling him: that he didn’t exist in this house, in  _ their home _ . Not anymore. They used to have a portrait hung above the television—a picture from their wedding day, both of them in their best suits, surrounded by flowers, each with a streak of icing on their cheeks, red as they smiled  _ (loved _ ) at each other.

It wasn’t like it was bare, now. It just… wasn’t there. Instead, there were frames after frames—photos,  drawings of everyone in Tao and Junmyeon’s lives.

And, well, Yifan hasn’t been in their lives, has he?

He thought he knew what it felt like to have his soul ripped apart by grief, after watching man after man, friend after friend, lose the light and fight in their eyes.

But this—this was different. Much  _ worse _ . This felt like his entire world was tearing down, and he couldn’t move, couldn’t fight, couldn’t do anything to stop it from breaking completely. The picture in his breast pocket felt heavier than it should. There was something in his chest— _ damn it _ , they said they managed to remove the entire bullet, and all the shrapnel. It was the only explanation his mind could come up with for the burning  _ pain _ .

But the pain of getting shot in the chest was  _ nothing _ compared to this. He couldn’t even breathe around it, couldn’t think past the demanding sensation of something pressing against his sternum, as if determined to open him up, get to his heart, and rip it to pieces.

It hurt. He didn’t even know  _ why _ it hurt—the wall was a beautiful testament to all the memories Junmyeon and Tao have made through the years, all their friendships, their celebrations. Was he really selfish enough to be hurt over the fact that—

“Yifan—oh.”

_ Oh _ .  Yifan closed his eyes. He was never meant to see, was he? Never meant to know. Never meant to find out. He still couldn’t understand why it hurt. It just—why did it feel like he had been erased? Forgotten?

He tried to smile when he turned over to look at Junmyeon again, but it probably looked more like a scowl than anything else. Tears were still threatening to fall from his eyes, but his chest felt empty, carved out. He wasn’t sure what was happening anymore, but the look on Junmyeon’s face—a mix of confusion, disbelief, anger, and, painfully, indifference—cemented the truth behind the voice in his head. 

He wasn’t welcome here anymore, was he? 

He wondered what changed, wondered what happened, but what’s the point of wondering when the end result was still going to be the same, anyway?

“I, uh,” he began. He didn’t know what to say. He gulped a few times, trying to find the words in his head, in his heart; words had been his only weapon, his life, the base of his entire career. What irony that he couldn’t find it in himself when he needed it most. He cleared his throat. “Is—Is Tao asleep?”

Junmyeon frowned, looking from his face, to his arm, to his eyes, and back again. He nodded, slowly, before gesturing to the couch. “Yes. Would you like to have a drink?”

_ You’re a stranger,  _  Yifan thought. You’re a stranger in your own home, having to be invited to take a seat, to have a drink.   _ You are unknown _ . 

He still nodded. It wasn’t that he didn’t care; he  _ did _ , he cared, but still, he missed his husband so much, that every moment he blessed Yifan would was a gift, a welcome reprieve from the tumultuous storm he’d been tossed under for years. It didn’t matter as much that the couch wasn’t the first one they’d bought, wasn’t the one they’d found themselves cuddling on during storms; didn’t matter as much that every hint of Yifan in their home seemed to have been replaced, painted over. 

As long as Junmyeon wasn’t kicking him out yet, it was enough. It had to be enough.

Junmyeon came back from the kitchen with two cups—Yifan tried to ignore that they weren’t the matching cups they’d gotten a year into their relationship, that they’ve kept for the entire time they’ve been married. He tried to smile as he reached for the cup that Junmyeon was offering him, tried to tamp down the heartbreak when Junmyeon chose to sit on the armchair instead of beside him. They’d never had to think twice about sitting together before, but it felt like a strange dance now, trying to figure out the right distance, the right steps. It felt like Junmyeon was trying his best to avoid falling into the orbit they’ve been living in for years.

It hit him all at once just as he was taking a sip of the drink Junmyeon offered him, that while he’d been trying to keep himself from sinking, Junmyeon had cut off his anchor and swam away. Junmyeon gave him orange juice. Junmyeon  _ knew _ he hated orange juice, must have still remembered, knew that Yifan made sure there was always a carton of apple in the refrigerator just because he couldn’t take the way orange juice felt like it burned his tongue.

For an inconspicuous cup of juice, it sure felt like it was acid burning through his entire body. He was surprised that his body, broken as it was, was still whole and able to hold him up. He closed his eyes and put the cup away, barely consumed. He blinked. Where had his life gone? Had he left it in the battlefield? Would he find it again if he went back?

“Yifan,” Junmyeon said softly, and Yifan looked up, a stupid hope planting in his chest.   _ Would he apologize? Explain? Ask me to tell him what happened? I would. I would still do everything for you, Junmyeon _ .  “Do you… have anywhere to stay?”

_ Oh _ . Yifan closed his eyes, trying to calm himself down. He could feel  _ something _ , struggling in his chest, in his mind; thrashing about and attempting to break free, to be allowed control. He didn’t know what it was, but it was terrifying how  _ tempting _ it was to let it go, to let it think and act and feel so Yifan could curl up and lick his wounds in peace.

Was he really, truly unwelcome here? Did he not have a place here anymore, beside his husband, with his child? Who has he been, then, if not for the man desperate to go home? He thought he’d find his answers here, in the walls of his house, among his memories and his love and his safety, but it felt like every second he spent here was chipping away at everything he knew about himself, everything he tried to keep intact in the time he’d been--

Yifan stood up with difficulty. Maybe his leg hadn’t yet completely healed; he should have followed the doctor’s instructions and stayed a few more days for physical therapy, but he’d been too excited to leave, to go home. And the couch was too low; it wasn’t helping him any. He cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s getting late,” he added, shaking his head as if that would help clarify anything that had happened in the last half hour. “I’ll… see you, Junmyeon.”   _ I missed you. I love you.  _

There was a pause, where Yifan thought maybe Junmyeon would say something else, ask him to stay, ask him where he’s going.

Junmyeon only nodded. “I’ll walk you out.”

The short walk to the front door was quiet, tense, awkward. They’d never had this problem before. Yifan had to keep reminding himself that Junmyeon was probably ashore now, while he was still hanging on to his broken boat. He turned around to face Junmyeon again as he walked out, not knowing what he wanted, but Junmyeon simply smiled, waving before closing the door. Yifan’s heart died when he heard the  _ click _ of the lock sliding into place.

He walked away.

*

Lu Han wasn’t completely sure what he was thinking when he decided that Korea would be the best place to go back to after… everything, but the country he’d known and served was too much of a reminder of everything he had lost, and China hadn’t been  _ home _ since he was adopted when he was two.

He was lost when the war ended, and he was still lost now; he wasn’t quite sure that watching the only friend you’ve made who survived get drunk off his medicated ass was a good place to start looking for a new direction in life, though. But he wasn’t about to turn Yifan away, after he’d called him from a fucking  _ payphone _ . Lu Han knew Yifan had been hospitalized for a while after the rescue; he didn’t know it was bad enough that he hadn’t even been able to buy himself a new phone. He was surprised he still remembered his phone number.

_ I slipped the note you left me into my notebook,  _  Yifan explained when they’d finally met up.   _ It’s one of the few things that made it.  _

_ Black Pearl  _ was a… strange place to be. It was loud, and crowded, and filled with people Lu Han never thought he’d see again: office workers, college students, a few people here and there trying to bring home a good time. Lu Han shuddered. He had no idea how many people he’d had to turn away from his and Yifan’s table in the two hours they’d been here.

His eyes strayed back to Yifan, cast resting on the table, good hand wrapped around a bottle of whisky he’d been chugging straight. It was his second bottle. He was pretty certain neither of them should be getting anywhere  _ near _ alcohol, what with their medication and the UN still keeping enough of a close eye on them that they’d probably get called in in the morning if they were found out, but Lu Han understood.

What he didn’t understand was what Yifan was doing  _ here _ , instead of at home, where he’d been so excited to be. “Shouldn’t you be on your way home by now?” Lu Han asked over the music blaring all around him. “It’s past midnight.”

“I’m   _ home _ ,”  Yifan slurred, his face brightening up into a grin Lu Han hadn’t seen since the first time they saw each other, at that first camp they were both assigned in. “It’s g-g- _ great _ !”

“You’re at a  _ bar _ ,” Lu Han said flatly, rolling his eyes as Yifan chugged his bottle again. Holy  _ shit _ , how can he stomach how that thing tastes?! He looked around them again, fingers tapping at the wood of the table. He wasn’t like Yifan; he didn’t have anyone waiting for him, or a home ready for him to live in again. His residence in Korea was taken care of by the UN, after they’d asked him if he wanted to leave. His parents had died while he was away, and he had no other siblings; half of their money had been seized by the fascist government and the other half was left untouched in Lu Han’s name.

“I’m  _ sad _ ,” Yifan sang, elongating the syllable until Lu Han swatted at him in annoyance. “I’m so  _ sad _ , Lu Hannie, very, very sad.”

He sighed, finally grabbing the bottle of beer Yifan had ordered for him to take a swig, making a face at the taste.  _ Room temperature, ugh. _ “I get it, you’re sad,” he said. “Why  _ are _ you sad? Weren’t you supposed to see Junmyeon and Tao?”

Lu Han knew he said something wrong by the way Yifan’s face immediately crumpled and—oh god, were those   _ tears _ ? 

“Yifan—Yifan, why the  _ hell _ are you crying?” He panicked, standing up to run to the other side of the table, where Yifan listed against his chest, wracked with sobs and tears.  _ What the fuck happened? _ He always assumed that everyone who survived were either happy they did, or happy that they finally got to go home. He was one of the few whose families didn’t survive the war, and he knew for a fact that Yifan’s was safe the entire time. So why the hell was he crying like he’d just lost everything?

“Yifan? Is that you?”

Lu Han looked up as another person approached their table from Yifan’s other side, rushing when he realized Yifan was crying, pulling Yifan away from Lu Han and towards themselves. “Yifan—what the—why are you—  _ what did you do? _ ”  The man looked up, glare pinning Lu Han in place.

_ Wow _ . It was the only thing Lu Han could think of. The man was  _ gorgeous _ —terrifying, yes, because he was still glaring at Lu Han, but he was sure that if he smiled he’d be the most beautiful man Lu Han had ever seen. Lu Han shook his head from his daze, brows furrowing as he stepped forward, feeling protective over Yifan—he  _ had _ been in charge of Yifan’s life for four years, after all. “Who the hell are you? And I didn’t do anything. I was trying to calm him down to figure out  _ why _ he was crying.”

The man rolled his eyes. “I’m Kim Minseok. He’s my friend. He doesn’t cry, so you  _ must _ have done something. What did you do?”

Lu Han could feel anger simmering in his gut. Fuck being attractive; he hated being accused on false charges. “I wouldn’t do  _ anything _ ,” he growled. “You have no right to be accusing me of something you have no idea of.”

The man—Kim Minseok—opened his mouth again to speak, but he was interrupted by Yifan pulling away from him to say, “he hates me,” before dying, falling forward and almost hitting his head against the table if not for Lu Han lunging to catch him, his hand taking most of the impact. He winced.

“I’m sure he doesn’t,” Lu Han cooed, moving his hand so that Yifan, now dead to the world, was leaning against the chair instead. He sighed. “I asked him why he was here,” he said out loud, to Kim Minseok. “The last time we saw each other we were still at the UN base in Germany, and he was telling me how excited he was to get home to his family—to Junmyeon and Tao. And then I get a call and I end up watching him get himself piss drunk even when we both know we shouldn’t be. I have no idea what’s happening, honestly.”

The man was silent, his eyes trained on Yifan when Lu Han chanced a glance at him. His hand was running through Yifan’s hair, the strands falling over his face. They barely had any time to cut their hair in the middle of war, and he probably hadn’t even thought of it when he was given the all clear to go home.

He cleared his throat. “I’m Lieutenant Lu Han, Sixth Brigade. I was tasked with making sure Yifan didn’t die during his assignment in the war.” He shrugged. “I’m also one of the few people in this country who understands what he went through while we were there.”

A tense silence followed, both of them watching Yifan sleep. He was going to have one hell of a hangover in the morning, that was for sure. Finally, the man sighed and said, “I’m sorry. I overreacted. I—we haven’t seen him in years, and the last time I heard about him, Junmyeon told me he was dead.”

Lu Han froze, blinking up at Minseok at the admission.  “ _ What?! _ ” 

Minseok flinched. “The letter came from the paper,” he explained. “They told us Yifan’s camp had been ambushed, and that there were no survivors. No other updates from the intel units, either.”

“And they never thought to, I don’t know, identify the people they found?”

Minseok shook his head, eyes pained. “No matter how much we asked, the only thing they could tell us was that no one had survived the attack, and even if anyone survived, there weren’t any records of their whereabouts, so rescue was pointless.”

Lu Han seethed. Was that the last thing his parents heard, too? That he died in an ambush? How many of them left in their unit went home to disbelieving families? How many of them—

“ _ Shit _ ,” Lu Han hissed. “Did Junmyeon kick him out, then? Is that why he’s getting drunk at a bar instead of having a nice reunion with his family?”

“I—I don’t know,” Minseok answered, stuttering and fumbling about in his pockets. “I’ll—I can call up Junmyeon, ask him why Yifan is here? If you want?”

Lu Han shook his head. Fuck that; if this Junmyeon cared more for the state Yifan came home in than some corporate escape tactic, Yifan wouldn’t be here, drunk and melancholic. “That’s not necessary. I’ll just—I’ll take him back to the hotel with me. Just tell Junmyeon where he is, I guess. If he’s worried.”

Minseok flinched, and then started glaring at Lu Han again. “Of  _ course _ he’s worried, you can’t—”

“Tell the man who got drunk and cried after being asked about his family,” Lu Han interrupted. “Come on; help me get him up. Carrying him unconscious once is enough of a memory for me.”

Minseok was silent as he grabbed Yifan by the waist, making sure that his cast was in front of his torso instead of crushed between them. Lu Han looped Yifan’s other arm around his shoulder, wrapping his own around Yifan’s back. Together, they lifted Yifan from the chair, slowly making their way to the door of the club. It was late enough that there weren’t too many people waiting for cabs, but also early enough in the party scene that cabs were dropping passengers off left and right. They managed to grab a car almost as soon as they stepped into the curb and, to Lu Han’s surprise, Minseok joined them.

At his questioning look, Minseok rolled his eyes and said, “I have no idea where you’re staying. How the hell am I going to tell Junmyeon?”

The rest of their journey to Lu Han’s hotel room was spent in silence, Yifan still sleeping peacefully between them. They dropped Yifan on to the bed, and Lu Han immediately started frisking his pockets until he found his mat of medication and the prescription that it came with. He put it on the end table, where his own were scattered about. Minseok didn’t ask.

“Well,” Lu Han said, “since you’re already here, fancy a drink? The room comes with complimentary alcohol.”

Minseok watched him for a few moments before shrugging and joining him on the couches. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

*

_ The least you could have done was let him sleep at home _ . 

Minseok’s text from last night was the first thing Junmyeon remembered when he opened his eyes in the morning. He had barely gotten any sleep last night, and this time it wasn’t even because Tao refused to sleep in his room alone, or sleep, period. He had remained bothered by everything that happened—Yifan appearing at their doorstep, Yifan holding their son, holding Yifan in his arms after  _ accepting that he was gone _ —

And then he’d gone and implied the man wasn’t welcome in their home. Minseok had seen him, for some reason, found him drunk off his rockers and with no place to stay in except for a stranger’s home. Well, a stranger to  _ him _ , but not to Yifan, and from Minseok’s extended silence, not to him, either.

Junmyeon sighed.  _ The least you could have done was let him sleep at home _ . He didn’t know what he was thinking last night, why he treated his own husband like a stranger in his own home, why he’d kicked him out barely an hour after seeing him again after  _ years _ . He hadn’t even thought of reintroducing him to their  _ son _ .

_ You shouldn’t have to introduce your son to his father.  _

“God, shut up,” he muttered, hands coming up to rub against his face. He felt tired, even this early in the morning. He sighed. If Yifan wanted to, they could meet up today, talk. Get to know each other again. The tears that Junmyeon had managed to stop from the night before finally made their appearance again, and he found himself crying against his hands, his mind fixated on the image Yifan had made last night on their doorstep, turning around, probably to ask Junmyeon if he could stay, but Junmyeon had closed the door.

He tried to ignore the part of him that grew petty over customers’ attitudes, that told him he should keep the door closed and not invite his husband back home. It was the part of him that got him through the grief, that gave him the strength to keep going even after losing job after job, that got him through the first time Tao was hospitalized due to a bad illness. It was the part of him that kept him  _ alive _ , and now it was the part of him that was telling him to keep Yifan out of his life.

He knew, rationally, that no one was at fault; that he will never know why Yifan decided to come home  _ now _ and not earlier, why he was assumed dead for almost two years, if he didn’t talk to Yifan or ask him questions. He realized that there was a part of him that didn’t  _ want _ to know, that wanted to keep its distance from Yifan, that told him he would only get hurt if he let him in again.

He pulled his hands away from his face and sniffled, a new round of tears coming on again when he realized that he wasn’t even wearing his ring anymore. Hasn’t for two years, kept it hidden in the bottom of his drawers. Yifan had been wearing his own ring when he came around, still gleaming where Junmyeon had placed it on his ring finger almost eight years ago. And what had Junmyeon done? Erased their entire relationship from his present life.

He wondered if their new neighbors, the young couple, even knew he was married, or if they just assumed that he was a single father raising his son in a quaint little house, alone. He wondered if any of his new friends he’d met recently even had any idea that there was someone else in his life, aside from Tao.

The tears haven’t stopped flowing. He closed his eyes again. He had to at least  _ try _ , not for his own sake, but at least for Tao’s. The boy grew up not even knowing he had another father, grew up thinking all he had was Junmyeon and his cool uncles. What had Junmyeon been doing? It wasn’t a conscious choice, but he still found himself hesitating on every picture, every memory, every trace of Yifan he’d tried to erase from their home, their lives. And yet he still did it, still took down their history, overwrote it in hopes of… what? Of moving on? Of forgetting?

How do you forget the one good thing that has ever happened in your life?

“Papa?”

_ Oh, no _ . 

“Papa, why are you crying?” He felt the sheets around him shift, and then Tao’s tiny hands were around his wrists, trying to pry it away from his face. “Papa, please no cry,” he said.

He let go of his face with one last sniffle, opening his eyes and smiling at the sight of his son. His eyebrows were scrunched in worry and confusion, frown tugging his lips down. Junmyeon couldn’t quite believe he never allowed himself the admission that whenever he looked like that, he looked   _ so much  _  like Yifan. He sat up and gathered his son in his arms, melting when he wrapped his tiny arms around his waist.

“Are you sad, papa?” Tao asked, voice muffled against Junmyeon’s sweater.

Junmyeon nodded. “I’m very, very sad, little panda-bear,” he whispered. “I’m sad, but you’re making it better.”

There was a pause. And then, “Was it because of Mr. Mean Man again?”

Junmyeon laughed, the sound watery and honestly a little unhinged, but how could he explain something as big as this? He knew kids were smart--he went to school to teach them, after all. He also knew he had to, owed as much to his son and his husband. He sighed. “It’s not because of Mr. Mean Man, baby,” he answered. “And stop calling him that, he isn’t mean.”

“But he made you cry.”

“I wasn’t crying because he was mean,” Junmyeon explained, smiling and pressing a kiss against Tao’s head. God, he loved his son  _ so much _ . “I was crying because I was…” happy? confused? scared? “...overwhelmed.”

“What is ov-o-ov--can you say the word again, Papa?”

“ _ Overwhelm, _ ”  Junmyeon repeated, laughing along and correcting his son’s pronunciation until he could say it properly.

“What is  _ overwhelm, _ papa?” he finally asked, tone innocent and proud when Junmyeon kissed him on the head again.

Junmyeon hummed. “You know how sometimes, things get too loud or too colorful for Sehun, and he ends up crying?”

Tao nodded. “You call it   _ tan-trums _ .” 

“That’s right, my smart little panda, Sehun sometimes has tantrums because he gets  _ overwhelmed _ .”

“So you cried because it was--too--too much?”

“Yes, little panda! Papa cried because it was too much.”

Tao paused again. He pulled away from Junmyeon, frowning up at him. “What was too much, papa? Was it… was it Tao?”

Junmyeon blinked. “No, no, baby, no of course not!” He pulled his son in again, rubbing his small back and kissing him on the forehead. “Taotao,” he said slowly, “do you… do you remember, when he had that big picture of Papa in the living room?”

“The one with cake?”

“Yes, the one with cake.” He shifted until he was leaning against the wall, pulling his son higher on his chest so they were both comfortable. He glanced at the clock. He had a few hours until he had to get to work; might as well start the long journey to introducing his son to his father. “Remember how someone was with Papa in the picture?”

Tao nodded. “Uncle Minseok called him your   _ hus-sand _ .” 

“ _ Husband _ ,  baby,” Junmyeon murmured. When did Minseok even tell him that? Junmyeon ignored the voice in his head that was telling him that, if he had found out Minseok told Tao about Yifan before now, he would’ve started a fight. Now he was just glad that Tao at least had an idea as to what they were trying to talk about. “He was--  _ is _ .  He is my husband. Do you remember what he looked like?”

“No,” Tao said, and Junmyeon resisted the urge to roll his eyes at himself. He took that picture down almost ten months ago; it was lucky enough that Tao even remembered it existed, and even if he did remember how Yifan looked in the picture, he probably wouldn’t be able to recognize him as the man who came last night. Yifan from last night was-- _ different _ .  Almost a stranger. His hair was longer, shoulders broader, leaner than he was when he left. There were scars on the parts of him Junmyeon could see that weren’t there before, and he’d been injured, wearing clothes he didn’t own and looking like a man who was lost, unmoored in a whirlpool of chaos. He looked nothing like the Yifan that had been in the picture, like the Yifan from their wedding day. Yifan had been  _ blond _ when they got married.

He sighed. “Mr. Mean Man was the one with me in that picture, little panda bear.”

“Mr. Mean Man was your  _ husband _ ?” 

Junmyeon nodded, and he suddenly felt another wave of tears incoming. This time, he didn’t stop himself from letting go, allowing himself to hold Tao closer and bury his face into his son’s hair. “Yeah, baby,” he whispered. “He’s my husband.” He sniffled. “He’s your dad, too.”

Tao was silent as he tried to process the things he was learning, but he kept his arms around Junmyeon, anyway. Finally, there was a nod, and then a small sniffle, until Tao said, “I called him mean,” and then there were tears.

Junmyeon squeezed his eyes shut and sighed again. Well, he should probably call in sick, shouldn’t he? He’d sort out the bills later. He could probably stretch his last paycheck enough to be able to pay for everything this month; he didn’t  _ really _ need that new phone, he could still use his old one anyway. His son--their family--was more important. He had a lot of catching up to do.

*

_ I have never thought of leaving. Leaving meant loss, and loss meant permanence or having to start anew. So finding myself here, lost among a million stars, is jarring. Nothing here is known to me, and I’m afraid of knowing, because knowing would mean pain for the day I finally have to leave again. _

 

Yifan’s head was throbbing, and he didn’t know if it was because of the hangover, exhaustion, or simply because of the incessant tapping on the pillow his head was resting on. He didn’t want to open his eyes, face the world, or risk the roiling nausea in his gut. His head--his entire body felt heavy, felt like there was a weight on top of him that he couldn’t lift or move out from under. His eyes stung, and his face felt funny, and yet it still felt like he was experiencing everything through a strange haze--from the alcohol? His medication? He didn’t really know, and a huge part of him didn’t   _ want  _  to know.

He didn’t remember much from last night, but what he did remember made him want to go back to that club he’d found and start drinking again. God, he hadn’t drank that much in  _ years _ ; he wanted to do it again. What was the point of being sober, anyway? Sobriety brought about strange feelings and sensations and a voice in his head screaming at him because he was being responsible.

He remembered feeling drunk--feeling like he was on top of the world, like he was finally stable on his feet again, like he was in  _ control _ . There wasn’t a life that was falling apart in front of him, his world wasn’t crashing down, everything was good. He wondered if this was what his therapist was talking about when she mentioned bad coping mechanisms. Back then he couldn’t understand, couldn’t fathom how someone could sell their souls to a bottle and live with poison running through their bloodstreams.

Now, though, lying on a bed with everything catching up to him, he could empathize. He wasn’t sure where he was, only knew that it was cool enough in the summer heat, and the sheets and pillows smelled clean. He could probably stay here, couldn’t he? Go out, have a drink, come back and just… be.

The incessant tapping finally got annoying enough that it made him open his eyes, squinting against the dim light streaming through the windows close by. He looked around, his head feeling muddled and slow, unable to completely process everything he was seeing. The curtains were a dark cream, almost bordering in brown; it looked  _ gaudy _ , but it worked wonders in keeping the bright sun from burning his eyeballs. The ceiling fan was slowly rotating over where he was lying prone on the bed, a small breeze bothering the hairs not stuck on his forehead. There was a distant humming somewhere in the room--probably the air conditioning unit, keeping the room cool enough to be comfortable.

He moved his head slowly to face the tapping, finding a phone lit up on the pillow beside his head. The tapping sound came again--it was coming from the phone, vibrating in the silence. It wasn’t his phone; he didn’t have a phone, hadn’t had one since his was lost while running for his life. 

Confusion was slowly rising in his chest. Where the hell  _ was _ he? The room was completely unfamiliar, making him feel like a stranger despite the comfort he’d found himself waking up to. He didn’t know where he was, or how he even got here in the first place.

The phone vibrating and lit up again and, groaning, he swatted it off the pillow. It fell with a muted thud against the bed, but it wasn’t annoying anymore, so he let it be. He looked around himself one more time, but didn’t have the energy or wherewithal to get up and explore, or try to familiarize himself any further. 

What was the point? He was going to get kicked out some time or another, so he might as well get as much rest as he could while he was here. He shifted enough so that his head was comfortably on the pillow again, and closed his eyes.

It was strangely peaceful around him, despite the emotions raging in his chest. 

All he could think of was Junmyeon--Junmyeon at the airport, smiling and waving tiredly, superimposed with the Junmyeon from last night, smiling one last time before he closed the door. Junmyeon at their dinner table, head in his hands with papers strewn across the wood in front of him, a cooling cup of coffee close to his elbow; Junmyeon from last night, studying him from where he was perched on the armchair, obviously uncomfortable with the amount of knick knacks sitting with him, but unwilling to sit any closer to Yifan. Junmyeon telling him, “ _ I’m so proud of you, this is a one in a lifetime chance!”   _ when he first told him about the assignment; Junmyeon asking him,  “ _ Do you have anywhere to stay?” _

Would he have offered their home if Yifan had said no? He would have willingly slept on the couch, rickety and uncomfortable as it was, if Junmyeon was uncomfortable with sleeping with Yifan on the bed. He would have slept on the  _ floor _ . It was pure luck that Lu Han was even in the country, that he wasn’t already somewhere else settling in, moving on with his life, or assigned to another area as an active member of the military.

The thought of Lu Han made him open his eyes again, looking around himself more thoroughly. His body felt strangely  _ other _ , like it wasn’t his own, like he was trying to pull himself up from outside his own being. The comforter pooled around his waist, and he barely felt the change in temperature, but he could see goosebumps rising from where his sleeve had been pushed up while he was sleeping. His sling was removed some time during the night; it was lying, hidden, close to his waist. His cast was heavy on his arm, but he barely registered the weight, the discomfort of hard plaster against his leg.

A look to the bedside table confirmed that he was either sleeping in Lu Han’s room, or he was taken in last night by someone just as heavily medicated as they were. He could see several mats of the same medicine he’d been prescribed back in the hospital, along with a few painkillers, a bottle of sleeping pills, and an unopened bottle of water. His own medication was probably somewhere among the mess, but he could parse through that later; right now he was too tired, too hungover, too…  _ little _ .

His thoughts didn’t even make sense anymore, but things haven’t quite made any since he got back. His thoughts once more strayed to Junmyeon, to Tao, to the way they both seemed suspicious of his presence. A wry smile made its way on to his face, and he wondered how Tao was faring. Was he inquisitive and curious? Did he ask Junmyeon questions? It was always the trait that Junmyeon found most endearingly annoying about him, rolling his eyes, muttering  _ “Journalists,”  _ under his breath, and he wondered if Tao had somehow inherited that from him. What kind of questions did he ask? And how did Junmyeon answer?

_ Will I ever get to know? _

The thought sapped what little energy Yifan was able to gather, and he found himself flopping over on his back against the bed again. His eyes remained half open, trained on the soothing beige of the ceiling above him. The ceiling fan was a dizzying brown, spinning and spinning and spinning and spinning, reminiscent of the spinning in his head, in his chest, in his gut.

He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know if there was anything he could do at this point, or if he should just wait on Junmyeon to… what? Contact him? He didn’t have a phone, didn’t have a way of putting himself out there. He wondered if Junmyeon even knew where he was. If he even cared, or if he’d just… gotten on with his daily life, putting last night into a box and keeping it somewhere in the recesses of his mind to be studied at a later date. Junmyeon was amazing at compartmentalization--it was a trait Yifan envied him for, one he wasn’t sure he was happy about anymore.

_ Do you really want him to suffer? _

Of course not. The last thing he wanted was for either Junmyeon or Tao to suffer, to feel pain, to be anything less than happy and content with their lives. He frowned. Was that it, then? Did he bring his family suffering? Did his appearance make them unhappy? He saw no other possible explanation for Junmyeon’s behavior last night, and if it was so--then it made sense. It made a lot of sense, then, that Junmyeon did not want him anymore. Did something happen, then, while he was gone?

The last he’d heard from them, Tao was turning over on his own. And then they were ambushed, and they lost contact. Three years was a long time to be absent from your child and husband’s lives, after all; and they had obviously moved on, made moves to improve their lives without Yifan in the picture. 

Maybe they thought he’d died.

The thought brought a pain that Yifan felt in the basest part of him. He had tried not to think about it, to keep it out of his mind, but it was painting the ugly reality that Yifan was afraid to face: that, maybe, he  _ had _ died, somewhere along forest trails and cliff edges and wary strangers taking care of him in a language he still didn’t fully understand. 

Maybe the Yifan he once knew, the Yifan Junmyeon loved, was left for dead somewhere in a rainy forest, trying to find his way out.

Who was he, then? Did he become an impostor, a fake, a husk of who he was? What should he do next, then? How do you find yourself in a world that has moved on without you?

The nausea hit him,  _ hard _ , and he squeezed his eyes shut to try to control it. Something was trying to crawl out of him, his chest, his throat; something was trying to take control of him, and without Junmyeon there to stop him, it was easier to sink back, to let it flow through his limbs, make him leave the bed and scream. It sounded so far away; it was like an out-of-body experience, watching as his arm flung out to sweep the lamp off the end table, his cast breaking the fragile porcelain before it even it the floor. 

_ He was being held down. Something heavy was on his chest, restricting his breathing, and there was something hard being pushed against the flesh of his torso. It was cold, and wet, and the ground smelled of earth, blood, and fear. He couldn’t breathe--didn’t know if he could even remember how to, couldn’t remember if there was ever a time where he was freely able to. It felt so far away; he should never have taken advantage of all the times that there wasn’t anything dripping down his throat with every inhale, where there wasn’t anything constricting his torso with every exhale. _

_ The metallic taste of panic was fresh on his tongue-- _ oh, wait, that was blood _. There was blood everywhere; there was always blood everywhere now. Was there ever a time in his life where blood didn’t paint every fibre of his existence?  _

_ Blood wasn’t supposed to leave the human body, and yet it seemed like there was an endless supply of it around him,  _ in _ him, flowing  _ out _ of him. _

“...fan!”

_ There was warmth slowly seeping through his shirt, a strange and remarkable sensation where he only knew the wet coldness of rain. Oh, that’s right; he’d gotten shot. You bleed out--it’s something that happens when you get shot, he’s seen it countless times; strange that it was something that stuck out in the mind-numbing eternity he’d found himself in. _

_ He still couldn’t move. His fingers were beginning to get cold, and his arm  _ hurt _. Were his eyes even open? What was he seeing? What was he looking at? Had the rain stopped? It didn’t feel quite as cold anymore, but it was still wet everywhere. The ground beneath him was hard despite the strange lushness the forest seemed to find itself in, after it was bathed in the life of humans. His friends. People he’d once thought were friends, at least--they shared dinner together, told stories about their families. Sat together in silence and in trying to ignore the faraway explosions of gunshots. _

“...ifan!”

_ There hadn’t been any gunshots. That should have alerted them that something was about to happen, but they were all exhausted, cold, hungry. They thought maybe hiding out in this part of the forest was safe--would give them reprieve, at least enough to heal, to rest, to reminisce. _

_ What did they reminisce about? Did they talk about their pasts? Their lives? Their families? Family… something about a family. A picture--faded, crumpled, stained with water and blood and mud, but still clear enough that every time he brought it out, it reminded him of what love felt like in a time where love was a myth concocted to rationalize the endless killing. Love for country. Love for self. Love for freedom. Love for the family he’d left behind, the family still waiting for him to come back. He has to go back--has to somehow survive through this, just like he’d survived every single day for who knows how long. _

“...Yifan!”

_ Yifan.  _ Yifan _. That was his name, wasn’t it? His name was Yifan. He was 31. No, wait; he turned 31 the last time he celebrated his birthday. When was that? How long ago was that?  _ When _ did he celebrate his birthday last? With whom? With… with  _ Junmyeon _. He greeted his 31st birthday with Junmyeon, just like how he greeted his 30th, 29th… 23rd. They were both 22 when they met each other, weren’t they? And they’ve been together ever since. A few months before his birthday, a few weeks before Junmyeon’s, they welcomed their first child. _

_ Tao. Zitao; they called him Zitao because his mother wanted a humble son, and hoped it was their little Tao. But there was someone else--someone who laughed when he showed his son’s name, because it was an apt name for a man who survived war. The son of a man of war. He wouldn’t be, though, if Yifan didn’t survive, if Yifan didn’t go back. So he had to go back, but peach was a better name for his little treasure. It was better than war.  _

Anything is better than war.

“YIfan!”

He jerked. He was being held down. Something heavy was on his chest, restricting his breathing, and there was something hard being pushed against the flesh of his torso.

“Yifan, open your eyes, come on.”

It was difficult. It felt like he was fighting his own body for control, but he tried—tried to concentrate on the voice calling for him, knew it was something important, knew that there was something he was missing. He was being held down. Something heavy was on his chest--

“Yifan, it’s  _ me _ , open your eyes.”

Yifan snapped out of it with a gasp, his entire body jerking under the weight of two people holding his limbs to the ground. It took him a few moments to reorient himself with the present--Lu Han held his face, keeping his head flat on the ground, both legs wrapped around one of his. His cast was partly being crushed under Lu Han’s torso, but Yifan barely felt it. There was someone else on Yifan’s other side, but Lu Han was calling for his attention before he could panic all over again.

“Hey, hey there, man,” Lu Han said, softly as he kept his hands firm on Yifan’s head. “Are you back with us now? Do you remember where you are now?”

Yifan opened his eyes to speak, but his voice came out as a small croak, his throat dry and painful. He tried to shake his head instead, and Lu Han seemed to understand. He let go of Yifan’s head slowly, hesitantly, as if unwilling to completely distance himself. He stayed where he was. When he was free, Yifan turned to look to his other side.

Minseok stared back at him, eyes wide with fear and apprehension. Both of his legs were wrapped around one of Yifan’s as well, but instead of holding his head, his arms held Yifan’s wrist to the ground. He didn’t say anything, but he glanced to the side for a moment before looking back at Yifan. A smile slowly made its way to his face--it was small, but it was a smile Yifan once thought he would never see again.

“Hey, Fan,” Minseok whispered. “Are you… are you there?”

Yifan gulped. He nodded, and slowly, but Lu Han and Minseok retreated from their posture over Yifan’s body. Lu Han pulled Yifan up with him until all three of them were sitting up, the two of them facing Yifan. 

He cleared his throat and looked around, eyes widening at the state of the room around him. The couch behind Lu Han and Minseok was upended, the pillows strewn about the room. There was an end table lying on its side close by, the broken remnants of what might have been a lamp surrounding the chipped wood. Beside him, a coffee table was upside down, spilling cups and pieces of broken glass. There was a wet stain where Yifan’s head had been--that must have been the source of the cold sensation he felt earlier.

He cleared his throat, still feeling scratchy and dry, almost painful as he tried to bring his voice out enough to ask, “What happened?” It came out as a whisper, weak and almost nonexistent, but Lu Han still smiled encouragingly at him. Minseok slowly stood up and left for another room, so Yifan looked to Lu Han.

“Uh,” he began, “what do you remember, Yifan?” He shifted so that his legs were curled in front of him, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes on Yifan were stable, clear, and Yifan latched on to his gaze desperately. A part of him still felt unmoored, as if one wrong move and he’d sink into the waters again--only this time, he wasn’t quite sure he’d be able to fight his way to the surface. He almost didn’t, if not for Lu Han and Minseok dragging him out.

Minseok came back before Yifan could answer, a cup of water in his hands. He sat in front of Yifan again, so close to Lu Han they were almost touching. A shared glance between them before Minseok turned to Yifan again, smiling gently as he offered him the cup. “Here,” he said. “Lu Han doesn’t keep cold water in the room, sorry.”

Yifan took the cup from him slowly, his back twinging with the action. Now that he thought about it, his entire body was sore--his back, his neck, his legs, his shoulders. His arm was throbbing, reminding him that he was supposed to be making sure it healed  _ properly _ , not… whatever the hell he was doing before he woke up. The glass of water, tepid as it was, soothed his aching throat, and he didn’t even notice how parched he was until he was already tipping the glass to get the last few drops out. Once he straightened up, he cleared his throat again. That felt better.

He paused for a moment, studying Lu Han, and Minseok beside him. He didn’t know why Minseok was here, or how they knew each other--didn’t even think it was possible for both of his worlds to interact like this, but the proof was right in front of him. They were both looking at him as well, waiting until Yifan finally got the courage to say, “I… don’t really remember anything.” He frowned--that wasn’t quite true, but he felt like he was in a daze. His mind was having a hard time trying to think back from waking up being held down on the carpet, although he  _ knew _ he woke up on a bed some time before. When?

“Hey, hey, Yifan, calm down,” Lu Han called, moving over so his hand was hovering over Yifan’s knee, but not quite touching. “It’s okay. Come on, we’ll help you, alright? What was the last thing you remember?”

His frown only deepened. “I… woke up,” he said slowly, and Lu Han nodded. “No, wait. I was--I was awake? I… I remembered the forest.”

Something flickered in Lu Han’s eyes, so quickly Yifan couldn’t pinpoint what it was. “Okay, and before that?”

He looked down, to the beige carpet between his thighs.  _ Something was holding him down.  _ But that--he wasn’t in the forest. He was here, in this hotel room; he wasn’t being held down by--he took a deep breath. He wasn’t in the forest. That was… that was a few months ago. Back then, he passed out, and when he woke up, he was in a hospital. He was in Germany, and he woke up from a week-long coma after severe blood loss. The doctor had pulled out the bullet lodged in his chest, but he’d managed to survive.

He stayed in the hospital for… a month? A month and a half? And then he was sent back… he frowned. Where was he sent back? Oh, right. He was sent back to Canada, where he’d had to stay in the embassy for a week, before he was finally allowed to come back to Korea. That was… that was yesterday, wasn’t it? Yesterday, he arrived in Korea, escorted by a UN official.

Yesterday, he went home. He… he saw Junmyeon, and he saw Tao. The rest of the night was a dazed blur, and he couldn’t focus enough with his heart beating hard at the thought of his son and his husband to remember. He furtively looked around. He  _ knew _ he’d gone home last night, remembered knocking on the door because he lost his keys with the rest of his belongings in the four years he was trying not to die in the mountains. 

_ But this wasn’t home _ —this wasn’t the house he’d bought with Junmyeon. This was unfamiliar. The cream walls were soothing, but they didn’t feel all that welcoming, made him feel like he was suffocating even with the amount of space around him. The upended furniture made things worse, and—

_ His arm flung out, sweeping the lamp off the end table. The smash of porcelain sounded far away. His leg jerked, but he couldn’t feel the impact of his foot kicking the bed frame strong enough to jerk it sideways. His body twisted, and the curtains fell around him. He had to go--the living room was a mess. His body was a mess. The couch was the next victim, his entire weight pushing it off and falling backwards, hitting the coffee table and smashing the glass with it. There was another smash--another lamp, another end table, falling at the mercy of his leg. _

_ There were voices screaming--he thought maybe one of them was his own. He went crashing down as someone launched themselves at him, and he flailed, struggled against the weight, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, he had to get out--he was going to die, someone was going to find him and he was going to die. He was going to die. _

“Yifan!”

He snapped out of it with a gasp, his heart beating painfully fast and hard in his chest. His breathing was labored, and only then did he realize that there were tears running down his cheeks, soaking the front of his shirt.

He’d done that. He wasn’t sure why, or how, but he’d done… this. The couch, the coffee table. He had somehow found the strength to ruin this place. He sobbed. “I’m sorry,” he said. He felt arms wrapping around his shoulder, but it seemed like all his energy has been sapped out of him,  leaving him exhausted and unable to do anything but cry. “I’m sorry.”

_ * _

_ Inertia. _

_ an object in motion remains in motion unless acted upon by a greater force. _

_ “You’ve made it this far. You can take one more step.” _

_ only when you’ve stopped do you realize that inertia has been the only thing keeping you going. this time, i don’t know if i’m going to make it. _

_ Contrary to what I expected, war isn’t always filled with activity. After the first few months, everything becomes monotonous, and it’s beginning to feel like inertia is the only force that has been keeping us going. _

_ Even the rising and the setting of the sun has failed to allow us to keep track of how much time has passed, not when the east shelters our enemies, and the west is covered in the thick smoke of death and destruction. Only a stronger, more powerful force can stop this endless cycle, and I’m beginning to understand the temptation offered by a cold bullet to a warm heart. _

  
  


“You  _ have _ to get out of bed some time, Yifan. You aren’t accomplishing anything by being a vegetable.”

Yifan grunted, but he didn’t move. A few moments later, he heard Lu Han sigh. There was a bit of shuffling, and then the door was creaking closed. Lu Han spoke again before it closed completely.

“Minseok made you dinner. It’s on the table if you want it.” And then a click, and then silence. Yifan’s eyes remained closed, but he reckoned it didn't make much of a difference when he kept Minseok’s guest room dark, anyway, refusing to even plug in the small automatic light that had originally been in the corner by the bed. It was already dinner time, apparently. It felt like it’s been a mere five minutes since Lu Han last peeked into the room at him to tell him lunch was ready.

Time passed strangely here, in this weird in-between he’d found himself in. A little like purgatory, but probably with a lot less of introspection required for his soul to leave--to be sent to either heaven or hell. He wondered what heaven felt like, then, because even  _ this _ felt like hell. If it felt like anything at all.

Ever since he woke up, neither Lu Han nor Minseok were eager to let him be on his own. He still hadn’t asked them how they knew each other, or how they met; but he figured it didn’t really matter if Lu Han was spending as much time in Minseok’s apartment as he seemed, trying to take care of a man who didn’t want to take care of himself. 

It turned out that they had dragged him back to Lu Han’s hotel after he passed out drunk, and his…  _ episode _ had caused enough of a disturbance that the management nearly called police to make sure no one was getting murdered in his hotel room. Lu Han was at first reluctant to leave, because his residence wasn’t ready yet, but just a small suggestion of them just moving Yifan into Minseok’s apartment got him checking out easily.

None of them talked about the fact that Yifan had a house of his own, and why they couldn’t have just dropped him off there instead of bending over backwards to find ways to keep him off the street. The darkness had opened its arms to him where his life--the old one, the one he’d once thought he could slip back into--rejected him and shut him out. This darkness was fine, easy; he didn’t have to think about anything here. It soothed the monster that’s been hiding in Yifan’s chest, the monster that wrecked a hotel room and made him  _ remember _ . He was safe here.

It made leaving hard. Made thinking of the possibility of having to even harder, made him want to burrow deeper into the small cocoon he’s made for himself just to keep the thought  _ away _ . 

He felt disconnected from reality, and while it might have sent him into a panic  _ before, _ now it just gave him relief, gave him a sense of wholeness even if it didn’t make sense. Nothing much made sense to him anymore, anyway; not in this world, this life. Just the thought of stepping out of this disconnect made him shake, reminded him of that  _ otherness _ he felt in Junmyeon’s living room, in Lu Han’s hotel room. And it  _ terrified  _ him, that something so dark, so destructive was lurking somewhere inside of him, waiting to be unleashed.

Maybe it was better this way, that he was so isolated, so alone. What would have happened if Junmyeon had seen him like that? Or, worse—what if  _ Tao _ had seen him like that? So violent, so different, so monstrous. The boy would probably stop talking to him altogether.

Not that they’d ever talked yet, but he wanted to imagine his son being protective over Junmyeon. Wanted to believe that his son was more of a family man than he ever had been.

His heart ached, but it was a dull, almost absent kind of pain. Those thoughts were like old bruises, now; they were still there, littering his battered soul, but they didn’t hurt unless he pressed against it. And he didn’t have to; not in this darkness. Here he didn’t have to remember, didn’t have to ask what he was supposed to do next. 

Here, he could even pretend he didn’t exist, because nothing existed here—not even time.

And yet, nothing could possibly remain stagnant forever. He was reminded of that fact in three different waves, all sending his world to tilt off its axis, so differently and yet all inherently the same.

The first change came with an unbidden, unscheduled knock on his door. Usually, after Lu Han calls him for dinner, they let him wallow for the rest of the night. They leave him alone, until the next time they knock on the door--in the morning, hypothetically, when he was due for another meal he wasn’t going to eat.

And yet someone knocked on his door, and suddenly the world he created for himself was beginning to crack.  _ How fragile _ , he thought, before he was interrupted by the door opening. “Yifan?” Minseok called.

He kept his eyes closed, ignoring the sliver of light from the hallway that was stabbing at his eyes. He tried to ignore Minseok, too, but he wasn’t up for being ignored this time, apparently--he entered the room and sat down on the bed beside Yifan’s hips, the mattress dipping down with his weight.

“Yifan, I know you’re awake.” He didn’t sound angry. That was good; Yifan wouldn’t know what to do if he was angry, or if he talked in a manner that wasn’t completely controlled, neutral. He realized that that was probably why Minseok and Lu Han made sure to talk to him like they were afraid he was going to jump and run.

He was acting like a cornered animal. He sighed, and finally opened his eyes, squinting at Minseok. It took him a while before his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room, and when they did, he finally saw his friend looking at him, watching him with a small, sad smile on his face. He looked tired, stressed; Yifan realized with a pang that  _ he _ was the cause of his tiredness, his stress;  _ he _ brought about that look on his face.

“I’m awake,” he said, or tried to, at least. His throat was scratchy and dry, bringing to perspective just how awfully he’s been taking care of himself lately. How long has it even been since the last time he’d had a drink of water? Since he’d last eaten? Since he’d last left this room?

The sudden awareness of his body--the way his back ached, or his throat itched, or his arm throbbed--brought with it the awareness of all the emotions he’s been hiding himself from. The pain. The anger. The uncertainty.

Suddenly, he wasn’t just a floating entity, wasn’t just part of the darkness anymore; suddenly, he was wholly, completely  _ human _ , and he was lost in a turbulent sea of everything he has gone through and refused to look at. It hurt, and it hurt even worse because he knew that it was, once again, his fault--he had left his wounds unattended, exposed, while he pretended that they weren’t there, and there was certainty that they have festered, worsened, deepened in the time he’d left them be.

He let out a breath and closed his eyes, the cool sensation of something wet sliding down his temple making him clench his jaw. What has he been doing? What did he expect to achieve by lying here, hiding? He’d done nothing to improve his circumstances, and now everything was just much  _ worse _ .

“Yifan?”

He resisted the urge to sob, and instead opened his eyes again, allowing himself the few tears that fell with the action. He cleared his dry throat. “Yeah?” he whispered. It was the loudest sound he could find strength to create. How  _ weak _ .

Minseok shifted so he was facing Yifan more comfortably, the small smile on his face a little softer around the edges, gentler. More understanding. This wasn’t what Yifan deserved; he deserved to be slapped on the face with reality, not to be coddled and enabled. Why had Lu Han allowed him to turn into this pitiful creature?

“Feeling thirsty?” Minseok asked in a whisper, voice so soft Yifan almost missed it. It was loud enough to shatter what little fragile balance Yifan had left, reminded him that while he was neglecting himself, he’d been neglecting his real life as well.

“Yeah,” he whispered back, closing his eyes as a sob made its way out of his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said, just a little louder, not really knowing what he was apologizing for, but letting it out anyway. He hoped that it reached far enough to whoever it needed to, for whatever it was he needed forgiveness for. “I’m so sorry, Minseok.”

“It’s alright.” Minseok’s voice was a balm, a reprieve; an anchor in its own right, and Yifan grabs on to it with the desperation of a drowning man. 

The second, stronger change came in the form that very same voice sending him tumbling straight into the waters again, just as it was gently extracting him from the cruel claws of his emotions.

“Junmyeon and Tao are on their way over,” Minseok said, his voice still gentle and so, so deceivingly soft, as if he wasn’t ruining Yifan’s life. “Would you come see them, please? Sehun has been wondering about the strange man, too, you know.”

_ And he adds that as if it’s an afterthought. _ Yifan sputtered, and then his body seemed to remember that his throat was dry because he started coughing. Minseok winced. Yifan would empathize, but he hadn’t yet fully processed what Minseok had just said.

_ First _ . Junmyeon and Tao were on their way over. As in, they were on their way over to Minseok’s apartment, where Yifan had been staying for who knows how long, where they were probably going to hear about him lying like a useless piece of furniture in the guest bedroom.

_ Second _ . Minseok wanted him to see Junmyeon and Tao, who were on their way over, because they were on their way over to Minseok’s apartment and Yifan was already here, so he should probably see his family, right?

_ Third _ . Sehun has been wondering about him, or the  _ strange man _ , whatever the hell he was in the toddler’s child. Sehun, as in the kid living in Minseok’s apartment, because he was  _ Minseok’s kid,  _ because Minseok had apparently adopted a kid while he was away, and he didn’t know, and he had  _ forgotten _ because he was too stuck inside his own head to even remember that there was a kid living in the same apartment that he was being a useless piece of furniture in--a kid the same age as his son, who probably  _ grew up  _ with his son, who probably knew his son better than he did.

Minseok shifted again, the movement snapping Yifan out of his thoughts. He made to stand up and approach the door. “They’ll be here in about an hour,” he said, standing at the doorway, face angled enough so that he caught Yifan at the corner of his eyes. “I’m sure they’d love to see you.”

Yifan was doubtful. “Don’t close the door,” he called out, watching as Minseok’s face lit up, a bigger smile making its way to his expression. Yifan was doubtful, but he was also much, much stronger than his doubts ever have been. He used to be; he had forgotten in the face of his own pain that he still managed to survive.

Minseok left, and Yifan watched him go. He moved to the edge of the bed, the movement sapping almost all of his energy. His mind was woozy, and it was throbbing dully. His back still ached, he was still parched, and his leg was beginning to hurt. He sighed and closed his eyes. Small things, little by little; he was going to get there, even if it meant he was going to claw his way through mud.

He let out a deep breath and heaved himself off of the bed, hand slapping against the wall to steady himself when it felt like his knees were going to give out. The sting from his palm seemed to wake the rest of his senses up, reminding him that he hasn’t eaten or even  _ moved _ in who knew how long. He closed his eyes and shuffled forward, opening them just a little, squinting against the light of the hallway. Realistically, he knew it would only take him a few steps to the door, but it still felt like it was miles away from where he was. He hesitated just before his toes touched the part of the floor illuminated by the light.

If… if he stayed here, he could continue wallowing alone, could pretend that nothing was happening outside of the small bubble of darkness and silence he’d made for himself. That nothing could possibly reach him if he isolated himself enough.

While he was on assignment, they had stumbled upon an abandoned city, on their way to a camp farther north. They’d made camp at an abandoned school, putting up tents against ruined walls and lighting fires with left-behind books.

_ It’s a silent city, _ the captain told him that night, sitting with Yifan, warming themselves with a weak fire while the parameter team made sure that they weren’t being followed by the enemy, that they could sleep soundly.  _ It’s what we call the cities too damaged by the war to be occupied by civilians _ .

_ A silent city _ . Yifan had gotten lost there, looking for traces of reality. He’d gotten lost there, looking for traces of how vibrant life must have been before the civil war broke out, before the government waged an all-out war against the rebels.  _ It had become a silent city, lost among its own alleys, forgotten by the world and remembered only by those who had found themselves in its arms. _

That city, too, had felt isolated, unreachable by the cruel claws of reality, of war. And yet It had been destroyed, completely inhabitable, because soldiers on either side had found themselves hiding among its buildings, sleeping in the silence of ruin. 

Yifan took another step forward, and then another, hand still planted on the walls of Minseok’s apartment, hoping that this time, he wouldn’t get lost; this time, he wouldn’t find himself scared out of his life. He made his way out of the bedroom he’d sequestered, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light of the rest of the place. The sound of the television was muted, but loud enough that he could make out the studio laughter of the reality show Minseok or Lu Han must have been watching. He wondered how much of life he missed as he withdrew from reality, how much of Minseok and Lu Han he ignored while they tried to convince him to leave his  _ safe haven _ .

There was a small boy at the end of the hallway, his arms wrapped around what looked like a stuffed chick. He was frowning, but he wasn’t looking directly at Yifan. Instead, his eyes were darting about--first at Yifan, and then his hand on the wall, and then to the floor. Over and over, until he finally said, “Hello.”

_ Ah, this must be Sehun _ . “Hello, Sehun,” Yifan whispered, his voice soft, but loud enough that it carried towards the child. He reminded Yifan so much of Tao, the last time Yifan had seen him; clutching at Junmyeon, frowning at the  _ Mean Man  _ who had made his father cry.

“How do you know my name?” Sehun asked him. He was frowning, too; his face was strangely endearing to Yifan, even with the expression he knew was directed towards him.

Yifan smiled. “Your dad talks about you, Sehun,” he said. “I’m the strange man, remember?”

Sehun didn’t say anything. Instead, he turned around and walked away, ignoring Yifan once more. He still looked over his shoulder before he disappeared to the other room, though, as if expecting Yifan to follow him. And Yifan did, a faint, almost unfamiliar smile on his face as he followed the small boy to where the sound of the television was loudest.

Every step he took felt heavy, as if he was carrying the world on his shoulders, and he was exhausted by the time he reached the end of the hallway. He panted as he leaned against the wall, eyes closed and mind fixated on the sound of the television. He looked and felt weak, but at the same time, he felt proud, as if he had accomplished a task given to him by gods. This was the first time he’d stepped out of that room, the first time he’d given so much of himself to a single task; it felt strange, exerting so much energy and effort into doing something so  _ trivial _ .

“Oh, Yifan, hey! Haven’t seen you in a while.” And yet, and  _ yet _ , when he heard Lu Han’s voice, heard Lu Han say so--it felt like it was an accomplishment, felt like it was something he should be proud of himself for.

“Lu Han,” a small voice said, tone serious and unignorable, “the strange man left the room, and he knew my name. Do you know him?”

That brought a wry smile to Yifan’s smile, and he laughed softly as he heard Lu Han try to converse with the small child who probably found home close to wherever Lu Han was seated. Yifan ignored them, and made his way to another room, the room he knew was the kitchen; his throat was parched, and he wanted a drink of water. It was probably time to start taking care of himself again.

When he got to the doorway, Minseok was busy at the table, three steaming mugs in front of him. The sound of footsteps made him look over his shoulder, and the sight of Yifan--battered and tired as he was--made him smile. “Hey, Yifan.”

Yifan forced himself to smile back, but by the laughter that he got in response, he probably looked more like he was scowling. “Hey.”

“Want some water?”

Yifan cleared his throat, coughing a bit as he shuffled further into the kitchen, struggling with a chair before finally parking his ass down with a sigh. Finally, he said, “yes please.”

Minseok nodded and made his way to the refrigerator, an empty cup already in his hands as he opened the door and pulled out a pitcher of cold water. Yifan’s eyes strayed towards the table, where there was a plate covered, probably his dinner; lovingly prepared, and just as lovingly set aside. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the chair, thanking Minseok absently when he felt his presence close by.

They’d never forgotten him. He wondered how many meals he had wasted, how many times Minseok must have woken up in the morning to find the dinner he’d set aside for Yifan untouched through the night. He knew they must have thought of him, must have set aside meals for him every day, but seeing proof of it--proof of people still caring for him--made him realize how much of  _ others _ he’d been neglecting this entire time.

He sighed as he reached for the glass on the table, sipping on the water slowly, resisting the urge to guzzle when the first drop soothed his aching throat. He closed his eyes and took his time, sipping slowly until it was all gone, putting the glass down on the table again when it was out. He opened his eyes again and smiled as Minseok came over to refill the glass, reaching farther into the table for the plate he’d earlier set aside.

“Enjoy,” he said, before patting Yifan’s shoulder and leaving him in the kitchen. Yifan listened as he spoke to Sehun, listened as the boy began explaining how Lu Han should hold the remote  _ this way because then the signal will reach the cable box faster. _

The meal was simple jjajangmyeon, the sauce smelling wonderful and  _ homey _ . He was so emotional he found himself tearing up as he picked up his chopsticks, hands shaking, to take his first bite of food that tastes like  _ home _ , tastes like everything familiar and more. Germany had tried to serve him Korean food, to  _ assist in his healing _ , but that was  _ nothing _ compared to this, prepared with the love of someone who actually  _ cared _ for him.

The food settled warm and content in his gut, the smell wrapping around him like a hug. Every mouthful felt like a homecoming, and he finally allowed himself to think that the only thing he needed now was his  _ family _ , and he’d be complete. His family--Junmyeon, Zitao, his mother… He could still hear Lu Han, Minseok, and Sehun talking in the other room, but he felt so unbearably  _ lonely _ , so incomplete. He wondered about what might happen when Junmyeon and Tao got here, what they were thinking to be visiting Minseok at such time of the night.

It couldn’t  _ possibly _ be to come see him, right? He shook his head. He wondered if Junmyeon even  _ knew _ he was here, that he’d been staying here since he left their house.

If he even cared.

“Mr. Strange Man,” a small voice said, and Yifan blinked to see Sehun standing at the doorway, Minseok looking sheepish behind him.

“His name is Uncle Yifan, Sehun-ah,” Minseok told him gently.

Yifan smiled wryly at the thought that both toddlers he’d met since he’d gotten home had given him nicknames.  _ Mr. Mean Man, _ his own son called him.  _ Mr. Strange Man, _ this boy named him. He wondered what other nicknames he’d garner from other children, if he got to meet them.

“Your dad’s right,” Yifan told Sehun. “My name is Yifan, and your name is Sehun.”

Sehun nodded, face too serious for a child of his age, but he slowly approached the table, only to deposit the small stuffed bunny he’d been holding on Yifan’s nap. “He is Mr. Bunny,” he announced to the room, eyes on the toy. “He keeps nightmares away.”

Yifan’s breath hitched, watching with wide eyes as Sehun pranced away, once more correcting Lu Han’s way of holding the television remote control. “I’m sorry,” Minseok rushed to say, but the silence that followed was filled with all the words Yifan knew and didn’t even have to hear.  _ You’ve been having nightmares. We didn’t know how to help. He’s just trying. _

Yifan shook his head. “It’s--it’s fine,” he said. “It’s okay. I--that kid is better at taking care of me than I have been.”

There was a short pause before Minseok chuckled, and Yifan thought he heard a hint of relief somewhere there. “Yeah,” he answered. “Yeah, Sehun is good at taking care of people.”

Yifan took the stuffed bunny between his hands, the toy looking even smaller in his hands. It was soft and fluffy; he smiled wryly at the thought of little Sehun curled around this toy in his sleep, trusting it to fight against unseen demons come to take peace away in the middle of the night. “He seems to be,” he said, his thumbs running against the soft faux fur of the bunny’s ears. They were huge, almost half the size of the toy itself, and the insides were a soothing pink against the clean white. “Does he take good care of Tao, too? You? Junmyeon?”

Minseok came to sit with him on the table, sitting sideways on the chair beside Yifan, facing him. “Yeah,” he said. “He’s Tao’s favorite cousin. They play a lot. And he reminds me to take a break every now and then, reminds me that there’s more to my life than my job.” He paused. When he continued, he spoke slower, gentler; cautious, almost. “He reminds Junmyeon to take care of himself, too, although you know how he gets. He’s stubborn as a mule.”

“So that hasn’t changed,” Yifan murmured. After all the changes that Junmyeon must have gone through while Yifan hadn’t been by his side, he smiled at the sliver of a glance Minseok’s brought of the man he knew, he loved. Who loved him back. “He hasn’t been taking care of himself well, has he?”

“No,” Minseok said. He cleared his throat. “I think he’s trying, though. You should talk, when they get here.”

Yifan nodded, although the both of them knew that if Junmyeon didn’t want to talk to him, he wouldn’t push the issue. Wouldn’t be strong enough to. Probably wouldn’t survive a second rejection either, but he refused to think of  _ that _ possibility and allowed himself to hope that maybe,  _ maybe _ they could still fix this, could still relearn each other and be  _ them _ again, instead of two separate people on two diverging paths.

_ A compass will always point true north, _ his mother told him once,  _ so when you get lost, always remember to look where your north stands. _ But his compass had gone out of whack since he got home, had led him to a home that erased all traces of his history, made him question everything he once thought he knew. What should he do then?

Look east, to where the sun rises--but in this city of silence and rubble, the horizon was covered by smoke and smog that not even the sun could penetrate its darkness. He was lost, and he was desperate; and he didn’t know if he was ever going to be found.

_ You have to try, _ his mother told him again, and the thought of the woman made him laugh wryly. He should give his mother a call, shouldn’t he? Maybe even pay her another visit; his short stay at the Canadian Embassy wasn’t a good enough setting for a mother-son reunion, was it? If--if things don’t work out with Junmyeon, he’d go to Canada, maybe stay for a bit, try to gain better footing. If things did, he’d still fly out to Canada--take his family with him, watch his mother fawn over his son like she never got to do with him.

“Yifan, there  _ is _ something you have to know,” Minseok said, snapping him out of his thoughts. He should stop doing that; it was rude, and unhealthy. No matter how tempting it was to just… withdraw, he had obligations to the real world. He should stay  _ here _ .

He looked up and watched Minseok, whose hands began fiddling with the hem of his shirt. It was a nervous habit Yifan had noticed a few months into their friendship, a nervous habit he never thought to address. That it was showing now made him nervous, too. “What is it?” he asked, completely uncertain if he even  _ wanted _ to know what was causing Minseok so much distress.

He wouldn’t meet Yifan’s eyes. He cleared his throat before sagging, looking tired and wan all of a sudden. “When… when you  _ disappeared _ ,” he began, before shaking his head and trying again. “When all contact with you stopped--you know, halfway into your assignment?”

Yifan nodded, dread settling like lead in his stomach. This was  _ not _ going to be pretty, was it?

“Uh, well. The paper--when we asked, the paper told us… the paper told us that you’ve died.” Yifan’s heart skipped a beat. “They… they gave ‘Myeon reparations, and everything. Told us that no one had survived the ambush in your camp. That they’d try to find you, but it was still… a hostile environment, so… so retrieval operations had to be postponed until it was any safer.”

Yifan couldn’t  _ breathe _ .

_ The night ended just like the rest of the day--quietly, so quietly that everyone was on edge. The captain patted Yifan’s shoulder with a tense smile and told him to sleep, that the last patrol was probably taking a small break, that’s why they were late. That they’d be back soon. _

_ Except they never came. What arrived were bullets and yelling, and Lu Han shaking Yifan roughly, pushing him out of his cot and yelling at him to  _ move _. Yifan was too disoriented to do anything but grab his messenger bag and run, nose twinging at the smell of gunpowder. _

_ It took him until he was at the center of the camp before realization hit him--that they were being ambushed, that they were all in danger. _

_“What the_ hell _are you still doing here?!”_ _Lu Han screamed at him, grabbing his arm roughly and pulling him forward until they were both running._

_ “W-What’s happening?” Yifan asked, voice catching in his throat as something embedded itself in the ground where his foot had just been, close enough that he felt small stones hit his leg. _

_ “We have to run,” Lu Han told him, pulling him hard enough that Yifan stumbled. Thankfully, he gained his balance almost immediately, rushing forward as he felt Lu Han pushing at his back. “Shit, that’s close--Yifan, run, and don’t look back, got me?” _

_ They were almost at the edge of the camp, where the clearing ended and the forest began. The forest Yifan had never been to, the forest that always seemed quietly menacing, holding secrets and dangers that Yifan wasn’t sure he was quite ready to explore yet. And yet it seems as if he won’t quite have a choice. _

_ “Yazek!” Lu Han screamed, before he cursed and pushed Yifan even harder. “ _ Shit _ , we’re gonna get overrun, damn it, Yifan! Move faster!” _

_ His legs obeyed before his mind could completely process what Lu Han had just said, that Yazek--he was so young, drafted right out of high school, so  _ hopeful _ \--had probably just died.  _

_ They kept running. They kept running even as Yifan’s legs and lungs began screaming for a reprieve, even as the gunshots began dwindling until there were just a few every few minutes. They only stopped because they had to--Yifan’s leg caught a root in the dark, and he stumbled face-first into the ground in front of him. Lu Han stumbled right on top of him, and he cursed as he pulled Yifan off of the ground, both of them panting and exhausted. _

_ Yifan leaned against the tree, hand on his chest as he tried to calm himself--settle his heart, slow his mind, because it was beginning to hit him that their camp had just gotten  _ ambushed _ and most of the people he knew were probably  _ dead _. _

_ It took him until he felt Lu Han rubbing his back to realize that his heaving breaths had turned into sobs, and the sweat running down his temples had been mixed with tears. _

_ “It’s alright,” Lu Han whispered, wincing as the sound seemed to break the sudden silence the forest fell into without the yelling and the gunshots. “We’re alive, Yifan.” _

_ Another sob made its way out of him, before he slapped both hands over his face to try to silence himself. They tensed as they heard rustling from somewhere behind them, and Lu Han shoved a firearm--his firearm--against Yifan’s chest. He gave Yifan a look.  _ Just in case, _ it said.  _ Just to be safe _. _

_ His chest was beginning to ache from trying to keep quiet, eyes wide as he accepted the gun from Lu Han. He was shaking; he’d probably be useless with or without a gun, but he understood the sentiment. His eyes were wide as he kept them trained towards the direction of the rustling. He was starting to make out low voices, and his heart lurched. Was this it? Was this were he’ll finally die? After a year, without even being able to finish what he came here to do? _

_ The gun was heavy in his hands, cold. He received short training in handling firearms before he was sent here, and he thought he would never have to hold one himself, never really saw the need when they assigned him a bodyguard the moment he landed. But now he could feel the urgency, the darkness, the dangers that was living in a country torn apart by war, and he realized that--if they survived tonight, he would have to do everything to keep himself alive. _

_ Anything, including holding and firing a gun. He clutched the cold metal like a lifeline, his heart skipping a beat as the rustling and voices grew louder until finally-- _

_ “Lu? Wu?” _

_ He sagged against the tree. That was the captain. They weren’t from the enemy camp; they were allies, and they were alive. As if sympathizing with their relief, the forest lit up with moonlight, and Yifan saw men emerge from the thicket one by one: the captain, his aides, a few soldiers following him. _

_ He felt more than saw Lu Han sag in relief in front of him, his posture relaxing but staying guarded. _

_ “You’re alive,” he whispered. “The others?” _

_ The captain shrugged. “Whoever made it out, they know where to go.” His eyes flicked to Yifan before training on Lu Han again. “We’ll have to walk to the next camp,” the captain murmured. “From what I know, it’s about three days away on foot, northbound.” _

_ One of the soldiers snorted, a misplaced sound in the forest. “Can’t believe I’ll ever experience thinking of travel time on foot,” he muttered, before switching to the country’s native language. The captain barked an order in the same language, and soon they were leading the way; Yifan didn’t understand, but he followed behind Lu Han, anyway. _

“Yifan!”

Minseok was shaking him, and he blinked as the scene of the forest faded to the scene in front of him--Minseok kneeling, eyes worried, the linoleum of the kitchen floor a more welcoming sight than--

“Yifan,” someone else called. He looked up to find Lu Han by the doorway, a frown on his face. “Are you alright?”

He gulped. Was he alright? He wasn’t really sure. He shook his head to clear it of the last dredges of the flashback, and only then did he realize that he’d been shaking. Minseok’s hand on his shoulder was an anchor, though, and he concentrated on the warmth of his palm as he tried to calm his rapidly beating heart.

“No,” he finally admitted, his voice coming out as a croak, his words unwilling to leave his throat. He suddenly felt suffocated, trapped; his skin felt too tight and everything was happening too fast, even though he  _ knew _ nohing was really happening around him.

“Yifan--” Minseok began, but he was interrupted by the bell.

“I’ll get it!” Sehun called, and soon they heard the patter of small feet making its way to the front door.

And everything was suddenly feeling  _ worse _ , because Junmyeon and Tao were here, and Yifan didn’t know what he was supposed to do. He looked at Minseok, panicked, his breath stuttering when they heard the front door open, followed by the sound of voices.

“Hello, Sehun-ah,” Junmyeon said, and Yifan’s heart stopped beating.

It was too late. He was here. They were here, and Yifan was too--

“Yifan,” Lu Han snapped. “Snap out of it. Your family is here.”

“Lu Han!” Minseok hissed. “Don’t--”

“ _ No, _ ” Lu Han said. “Yifan, get your ass out there. There’s no use trying to run.”

“Lu Han--”

“He’s right,” Yifan whispered. Minseok whipped his head around and glared at him instead, but whatever he saw in Yifan’s face made him soften. Junmyeon’s voice was getting closer. He was still talking to Sehun, the both of them chattering away about little white bunnies. “He’s right,” he said louder. “I can’t keep running.”

_ I’ve done enough of that to last a lifetime. _

Minseok sighed, finally standing up. He patted Yifan’s shoulder twice before pulling away, making his way to the living room. “Just… take your time, alright?”

Yifan nodded. Lu Han shifted enough to let Minseok pass through, and they shared a glance before Minseok left the two of them alone in the kitchen. He heard him greet Junmyeon before they started talking about the evening news. Yifan took a deep breath, letting out slowly. “Thanks, Lu,” he whispered, closing his eyes and leaning back against the chair.

“You know,” Lu Han said, “I think we’re gonna make it out of here. Someday.”

Yifan smiled.

Yeah. Someday.

*

_ These cities of silence were home to millions of people once, and now they’re home to ghosts and demons lost among the rubble and destruction. _

_ If you listen hard enough, you can hear their voices in the middle of the night--some of them calling for help, but many… many are names of lives lost and people forgotten. Isn’t it ironic that in our weakest times, it’s only our demons who remember us? _

  
  


Lu Han left him in the kitchen with another small smile, and Yifan closed his eyes to the sound of him introducing himself to Junmyeon. “It was my job to keep Yifan alive in his assignment,” he said, and Yifan winced at the small  _ oh _ Junmyeon let out.

“Papa,” he heard Tao say, voice tinny and energetic at this late in the evening, “where is your husband?”

There was a moment of silence, before Minseok and Junmyeon began talking over each other. Yifan couldn’t understand a thing they were saying, and he figured--if his son was looking for him--never mind that he referred to him as  _ Junmyeon’s husband _ instead of anything in relation with himself--it was time to show his face. He took a last, fortifying breath before heaving himself off of the chair, and making his way out of the kitchen.

Junmyeon and Minseok had stopped talking to Tao and were now speaking with each other in hushed tones in one corner, while Lu Han was on the floor with both kids crawling over him. Well, Tao was climbing on his back, and Sehun stood in front of them with his hands on his hips, seemingly directing what Tao was supposed to do next.

He cleared his throat to catch their attention, and he resisted the urge to shrink back at the sudden silence that followed. He kept his eyes on Tao, who climbed off of Lu Han’s back and made his way to him. He had to tip his head back to keep up the eye contact. There was curiosity in his eyes, as well as something warm that made Yifan smile. Tao smiled back as he reached up, and Yifan bent down to humor him.

He wrapped his arms around Yifan’s neck and his legs around his waist. Yifan wrapped his good arm around his son’s hips and straightened up, trying to keep from scowling at the weight.  _ God _ , he’d been so unfit lately. Tao leaned away to look at his face again when he was standing, his hand patting the hairs on the back of Yifan’s neck. His weight was comforting, and Yifan squashed the fear that he would never get to hold his son this way again.

“Hey, Tao,” he said softly. 

Tao beamed at him. “Papa says you’re my Baba,” he said.

He almost dropped Tao at that, saved only by the fact that Tao tightened his hold around his neck and buried his face against his chest. “I missed you, Baba.”

Yifan’s eyes met Junmyeon’s, both of them watching each other with wide-eyed wonder. He broke their staring contest by burying his face into Tao’s hair, breathing out “I miss you too, Taotao” over and over again.

 

*

 

Junmyeon was still as beautiful as he was the first time Yifan saw him. He was older now, more tired; they both were. But the light of life was still burning in his eyes, and his kindness still showed on his face like an open book.

They’ve been sitting in silence for over a quarter of an hour. It took a long time before they were able to convince Tao that he could let Yifan go and that he wasn’t going anywhere, that he could leave Sehun’s room anytime and he would still find Yifan in Minseok’s apartment. Minseok and Lu Han had left with the kids almost twenty minutes ago now, telling them  _ We’ll give you some privacy _ .

Lu Han sent him a  _ look _ that told him they should talk, but he didn’t know where to begin, didn’t know what to talk about. Didn’t know if he could talk about what happened without it triggering a flashback like the one he’d suffered in the kitchen. Didn’t know if he had enough energy to be able to go through another one in a single night.

_ It’s the trauma _ , his psychiatrist told him in Germany. She gave him pills and a referral to another doctor he could see here, in Korea, but he hadn’t even been able to leave the guest room--how was he supposed to find a doctor in this country?

He knew it wasn’t fair, but he wanted Junmyeon to lead their conversation. To lead the talks, the negotiations. To tell him what he could and couldn’t do, at this point, because it was obvious that he’d been the one to talk to Tao. Told him Yifan was his husband, Yifan was Tao’s  _ Baba _ . The thought made him feel warm, affectionate; he suddenly missed having his son in his arms again.

Junmyeon took a deep breath and Yifan concentrated on him again, watched him sag with the sigh he let out before he cleared his throat. “When…” he began, “...when they told us--when they told us you’d… died.” He fidgeted. Yifan wanted to close his eyes, didn’t want to listen. Wanted to go back to bed and forget that this conversation was something that was  _ supposed _ to happen, but he persisted. He had to know, had to hear this. They had to start somewhere--and if Yifan’s supposed death was where the line began, who was he walk to away?

“I quit,” Junmyeon finally said. “I stopped working at the school. I told everyone it was because I had to take care of Tao, but… In reality, it just was… hard. It was hard trying to continue living when they told me the man I loved with my entire being died, that the man who promised me my entire life had left. I couldn’t… move. Couldn’t eat, couldn’t take care of myself. Couldn’t take care of Tao.

“It took me a few months before I realized I had to still find ways to… you know. Feed my son. Take care of him. So I took up a job at the supermarket, took another at the cafe. Worked both jobs every week just to be able to pay the bills.

“The paper sent reparations. I didn’t want to touch it. Didn’t… I don’t know. I think it’s pride. I didn’t want them to know how much I depended on you for survival, but that’s a stupid thing to put above my son, but… I had to somehow learn how to live without you, you know? They said you were dead. That was permanent.

“The thing about the house started slowly. I ran out of space to put Tao’s art and pictures on. And for some reason, I decided that--our memories. Our memories didn’t really need that space, so I took them off. Erased you from my son’s life because it was easier than having to explain to him and everyone else we met that you were  _ gone _ .”

Yifan stared at Junmyeon as he continued talking--talked about their new neighbors, about Tao whining for a pet dog, about how it got easier the more hints of Yifan Junmyeon removed from his life. And it hurt, seeing his pain, but it relieved him as well, knowing that this was it: their new beginning.

This was their road to healing.

And Junmyeon--Junmyeon wanted Yifan to be part of his.


	2. Epilogue

_ The war has taken more from me than any other singular event in my life. I’ve lost friends, acquaintances--I lost myself, and in the process, lost everything that made life something worth living, lost the reason that kept me fighting.  _

_ No matter how many anecdotes I read about people surviving wars, I will never understand how it can be seen as a source of growth. All it has been for me is destruction. _

_ The process of healing has only truly begun. I am not there yet. I have a long way to go, but every step I take, with my friends and family with me, reminds me of who I once was, who I used to be. Who I could be if I simply let go of the security hiding behind my scars brought me.  _

_ I am certain that I will never truly be whole, that there will always be a part of me left  _ there _ —in those ravaged forests, trampled by fear and death. I can never be really  _ myself _ again, but I am learning from this world, the world that left me behind, that I can grow and change and become someone new--someone who can love better, learn better,  _ be better _. _

_ I would like to say that this wouldn’t have been possible without war, but without war, this didn’t even have to happen. My son wouldn’t have had to grow up without a father. My husband wouldn’t have had to carve a part of himself out to move on. My friends, my parents, my colleagues--they never should have had to learn how to move on from losing someone, leaving a gaping hole where I used to be.  _

_ So much has been sacrificed for peace, and though sometimes I find myself once more lost in that city of silence, I have learned to follow the beating of my heart, knowing that it will always guide me home. _

 

_ And save, _ Yifan thought, before finally closing the word file he’d been working on to stretch his aching back. He groaned as he heard his spine pop in a few places, finally feeling a bit of relief as his shoulders sagged.

“Are you done, Baba?”

He smiled, turning in his chair to smile at his son. Tao smiled back, coming into the room with a steaming mug in his hands.

“I got you tea, Baba, drink it while it’s still hot, okay?” he said, placing the mug down on the coaster Junmyeon had taken to leaving on his computer desk. He peered curiously at the computer screen, finding it blank. “What were you working on?”

“Just an ending,” Yifan answered, reaching forward for his tea.  _ An ending to a story I once refused to narrate, but an ending necessary so a new one can begin. _ He made sure to blow on his tea before he took a sip, sighing in relief as the hot liquid made its way down his throat, warming him from the inside out. “Ah, Taozi, that hits the spot. Thank you so much.”

Tao’s answering grin was almost blinding, and he bound forward to throw his arms around Yifan’s neck. Yifan set his mug down before wrapping his arms around his son, pulling him flush against his chest. Tao was growing older, getting more mature; he was beginning to forget a time when Yifan wasn’t in his life, but a baser, more instinctual part of him still made him clingy, made him anxious to be separated from his Baba, made him give out hugs and ask for cuddles.

Yifan closed his eyes and buried his face into his son’s hair, taking a moment to just savor their closeness. The memories of the time when he didn’t have this--thought he never could have this--was still viscerally vivid, still sometimes made him wake up in cold sweat, made him leave the bed to check his children’s bedroom to make sure that the last few years was  _ real. _ It was. Tao was always there, sleeping soundly on his bed, and little Jongin--their  _ baby _ \--was snoozing off in his crib, surrounded by the softest pillows and the softest plushies.

Junmyeon always found him there, wrapping Yifan in his arms, reminiscent of the way he’d found Yifan when he felt so, so  _ lost _ . He would always stand there silently, allowing Yifan to drink his fill of the sight of their children, not speaking, not asking; a silent guardian, understanding of whatever it is Yifan might need.

And then, in the morning, he would press a kiss to Yifan’s cheek to wake him up, settling a sleepy Jongin against Yifan’s chest and tucking Tao close to his father before leaving the room to prepare breakfast.

“I love you, Baba,” Tao whispered. “Thank you for coming back.”

Yifan squeezed his eyes, and pulled Tao in closer. He still had a long way to go, and his city of silence remained a tempting retreat. But he knew, deep in his heart, that he was willing to traverse its deserted streets, because with him in his journey, encouraging him with every step, smiling at every milestone, was his family.

And, really, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I love you too, little panda,” he whispered.

_ fin. _

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far: congratulations! Thank you so much for giving this fic a chance. It was a struggle writing it, and honestly, at some point, I just wanted it over with. I hope I gave the fic justice. to the best friends ever, m and e, this one's for you!
> 
> i have a LOT to say about this fic, and i'll come back soon to write about it!!! for now, you can check the comments where i discuss some of it uwu
> 
> since reveals are done, come scream at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/wonseokie), and i also have a [CuriousCat](https://curiouscat.me/wonseokie) so you can talk to me through there uwu


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